


Portrait Of A Libb

by Notatracer



Category: A Bit of Fry and Laurie RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notatracer/pseuds/Notatracer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sordid details of collective sordidness unabashedly compiled for the entertainment of the reading several.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

'Aaa-aggh ... oh ... fuck yes ...'

My toes curled, heels trying to burrow their way into the mattress, as I let loose that rather embarrassingly loud groan. He always said I was much too noisy right before he'd roger me someplace where others were sure to overhear. You could picture me now, head thrown back, gasping, fingers tangled in that gorgeous head of hair of his... but I'd rather you didn't. Here I was and there he was... his eyes closed as he finished his business of finishing me off. I'm never quite sure how we get ourselves into these situations. The bits where point A of the evening leads to, well, point F are a blur and a mystery. Our little secret that's so much _not_ a secret that it _is_ one. Funny how that works.  
  
After a well practiced movement of the tongue, he disengaged with a loud sigh. I unwrapped my fingers from his hair, trailing my finger tips down the side of his face ... down ... down ... until they found a happy new home on his forearm. My other hand rubbed at my rather tender bits and bobs for a moment before it made a similar lazy trail, aching for more contact with the man who was now resting his chin on my abdomen. I looked into his eyes and could tell he was on the verge of wanting to complain about something. I knew that look, that sigh, the way he was drumming his own fingers on the bed ... itching to fidget. I wanted to ask him what the matter was in the most caring and concerned of voices I could muster ... I really did. However, in my current post-orgasmic state, the best I could come up with was a goofy expression and a garble that resembled, 'What?'

He lifted his head slightly, but still not relinquishing his place between my legs.

'Darling, I do wish you wouldn't thrash about.'

'I thought you liked my thrashing. Wasn't it just an hour ago that you said you wanted to fuck me so hard that I'd have to call out ill tomorrow because I wouldn't be able to walk?'

'Yes, my little kiwi fruit, thrashing whilst fucking would be divine ... but thrashing whilst you have a fistful of my hair twisted in your fingers is a whole other matter indeed.'

'Well, I might not thrash if you weren't so good at it.'

'Ah, but dear boy, therein lies the quandary. How does one get you off without being snatched bald in the process?'

'You could let _me_ fuck _you_ for once.'

He laughed. An obviously fake laugh, I might add.

'Ummm ... No.'

'It isn't exactly fair, is it?'

'I never said it was fair. As they say, "life is but a series of trials and tribulations, none of which are very fair."'

'Who says that?'

'Me, actually.'

He grinned slightly just before leaning forward and kissing my stomach. The thought that I had so carefully planned out to finally one-up him at his own game left me completely as his tongue found its way into the shallow confines of my belly button. I, of course, groaned quietly for once. I should have known he wasn't finished. He was fond of riling me up a bit before the main event. He must have been feeling playful this time, usually he goads me on until I'm so cross that I nearly get up and leave. He doesn't mean it ... or maybe he does mean it ... but it's all part of the game, you see.

Sometimes he's the perfect gentleman ... the kind that you'd imagine to find within the pages of some sappy romance novel. He can be the gentle, sweet, compassionate, and tender lover that every princess imprisoned by a dragon dreams of rescuing (and subsequently deflowering) her. Other times, he wants it fast, hard, and rough. The kind of sex that truly defines the word "fucking" ... the kind that makes you blush to remember ... the kind that causes you to see stars ... and the kind in which you can still feel him inside of you the next day. The kind of sex that leaves you sticky and with a hard to explain bruise or two.

Before I even had time to realise what was happening, he had already gotten to his knees ... and there I was with my legs on his shoulders and my arse in the air. He smiled down at me with a lazy, lustful expression that was oddly enough on his face almost all of the time anyway. I smiled back. I wanted him so badly, but all he was doing was rubbing his hands up and down my legs. Then, he started sucking on my toes which only managed to result in my getting hard again. I wish he would let me do anything to him apart from the occasional hand and/or blow job. I want to know what it feels like to be inside of him... and have him shutter under me for a change. It's frustrating, this slight inequality in the bedroom ... or wherever we end up panting and tugging at one another.

His tongue worked its way down my foot before he kissed my ankle. He says my ankles are cute. I say he might be a bit insane for that one. I could just reach his stomach, so I rubbed it... as the fingers of my other hand twisted into the sheets, awaiting the inevitable. He licked his lips. My legs shook. With no further warning, he thrust into me with a movement that can only be described as professional. He hissed. The painful pleasure was entirely too much. My toes curled and my feet hit the back of his head. A rush of heat and a cry of 'Ungh!' accompanied me promptly shooting my load onto my stomach ... and all surrounding areas. He bit his lower lip and began to move in and out. The friction on my end was quickly nearing unbearable, but he seemed to be in total ecstasy ... looking more sexy and ravishingly beautiful at that moment than I could ever remember. I held out for as long as I could, three minutes by my count, before I took hold of his arm. I squeezed it slightly, saying, 'please' ... he came before I even finished the word.

He withdrew, panting and kissing me with a fervid passion. I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him closer.

'You're exquisite ... and a fabulous fuck. I wouldn't trade you for anything ... except perhaps for that black waistcoat I saw in the window of Spencer Brothers yesterday.'

'I love you, Stephen.'

He smiled at me.

'I need a shower.'

'But ...'

I didn't want to sound needy, but I couldn't help it. Sometimes I feel so dreadfully alone when I'm not in his arms. Thankfully, he can read me like a book. His expression softened even more and he kissed me again. It was softer this time ... bordering on romantic, even. As romantic as two men on a disheveled bed, covered in their own bodily fluids, can be.

'Come with me. We'll get clean, change the sheets, curl up together under a fresh duvet, and I can fall asleep to the sound of your breathing. Does that sound like a good plan, my sweet?'

I nodded. It was a good plan ... but any plan that involves us together is a good one. The happiest moments of my life are spent with him. He makes me feel special ... loved and wanted .... When I'm with him, the rest of the world doesn't exist. If I wasn't so damn paranoid about what people would say, I'd never leave his side. Perhaps one day I'll muster up the courage ... but it doesn't matter because people will only think it's a joke. No one ever takes me seriously.

Ah, well, save my neurosis for another day. As for now, I desperately want to forget again that there are more than two people on the planet.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written June 2005)


	2. Lugubrious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 2003-2005

I look over at the beautiful, sleeping man beside me. He's so peaceful and serene ... a small smile across his lips. I wonder why he wastes his time with me. I'll never be as eloquent or smart as he. I _am_ his, and at the same time I'm _not_ ... and probably will never be.  
  
Oh, don't get me wrong, _she_ knows about him. She's always known. And, I do love her dearly ... but not in the same way. Christ, we don't even sleep in the same room ... when we're living on the same continent. She's my substitute mother figure. She provides comfort and support. I provide for her financially. And, we both provided each other with the children we've always wanted. I love my family, but we're so extraordinarily strong because it truthfully doesn't matter what we do ... so long as we keep it out of the public's view. Sometimes that hasn't exactly worked ... but sometimes you have to toss the blasted tabloids a fabricated scandal to keep them away from the truth.

So, what you have are two fairly fucked in the head comedians going to often great lengths to keep the world out of their private business. I have a false marriage. He had his appallingly absurd celibacy claim. Until, that is, people were starting to ask questions so he found himself his own "beard." Even if his _is_ male, he still serves the same principal function: Distraction. Let the world think it's a joke, when, in truth, it isn't very funny at all. Sad, really. Tragic, even. People wonder why both of us are so depressed.

He'd snort at this, I'm sure. Make some glib comment using a word I've never heard of ... though I suspect some of the words in his vocabulary are of his own invention.

We don't get to see each other much at the moment. I'm working almost ninety hours a week. People can be rude about how much actors and the like make, but I can tell you that sometimes it's not worth it. Some days I think about hanging it all up and going to work in a book shop in some small village. We could get a cottage, disappear from the world, and stop this nonsense. As it is, it looks like we'll never be truly together. Lately we've been half a world away and I can feel every inch of that distance ... most especially living in West Hollywood where so many things remind me of him ... at least in an abstract sense.

I go to visit as often as I can. However, those visits don't last more than a couple of days and I spend most of the time with the children. This time, for example, we only have a precious few hours together. When we're so far apart, we play on the internet a lot ... shooting back e-mails with everything from updates to gossip to things such as his persist quizzing me on what I'm wearing. We also chat it up on AIM on the rare occasions we catch each other online. I even bought a web cam so we could see each other. I wouldn't tell him this, but sometimes I stay up all night so I can talk to him. I'll go into work with no sleep, nap every chance I get, and be exceedingly crabby. Of course, I have that accent all day ... so people just think the punchy attitude is my being in character. Instead of being offended, they applaud my "professionalism". hah.

I hate to wake him up. I hate to leave him even more. I kiss those soft lips of his until he wakes.

'Is it that time already, my pet?', he whispers.

I nod, slowly. I don't know when we'll be together again. The back of my mind says _'If ...'_

I swallow hard as that all too familiar heart break starts to rise again. I know he sees it in my face ... I'm so transparent to him. He tries to smile, but I can tell he's just as sad. He rubs his fingers through my hair and along my face.

How long can we keep doing this to ourselves?

Our love has always been both creative _and_ destructive. When we're together, it's like magic. When we're apart, the loneliness is sometimes unbearable. He's never said as much, but I know in my heart that he was advised a few years back to make a clean break of me. I'm so glad that he didn't listen to reason because I don't think that I could live without him. I think he feels the same way about me. Perhaps we're addicted to each other.

I kiss him again.

'Please come visit soon. The apartment's too empty.'

He nods an agreement. I sit on the edge of the bed and start to slide my clothes on.

'Hugh ...'

I stop moving ... breathing, I think. Maybe he's going to plead with me not to go ... or maybe he's going to say the "L" word that he abhors so much ... or maybe he's going to tell me that he doesn't want to trifle with me anymore ....

'Yes?'

'Take care of my heart.'

I heave a relieved sigh. It isn't exactly what I wanted, but every day my guts twist up at the thought that he's going to eventually tire of me. I'm turning into such a sad old fucker.  
I smile to myself.

'I love you too.'  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written June 2005)


	3. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

I pushed my way through the beaded curtain that divided the lounge and the hallway which lead from the bedroom. Actually, I didn't push my way through the annoying monstrosity that passed itself off as decoration, so much as I stumbled half-asleep through it ... mouth wide open with several yawns. It was indecent to be awake at this hour.  
  
I'm sure I was quite the sight ... a no doubt horrid case of bed head, a dirty t-shirt that smelt so much like sex that I could taste it, and pyjama bottoms which not only featured cartoons of little hot dogs dressed as chefs, but which were doing a piss poor job of concealing a certain part of my body's persistent over eagerness to start the day.

After my fifth consecutive yawn, I rubbed my stomach, and opened one eye enough to see Stephen, looking far too awake, sitting in a chair, smiling at me. Not just any smile, mind you, it was the smile that said he was laughing ... just on the inside.

'You're awake uncharacteristically early. I thought sunlight was deadly to your sort... makes you fizzle, burst into flames, or something.'

I grunted and nodded towards the television.

'Can't sleep ... noise.'

'Pish. I've only just turned it on.'

I shrugged and yawned again.

'Waa Waten?'

'Pardon?'

I pointed to the telly.

'Wa?'

'Use your words, Hugh, darling.'

'What ... watchin'?'

'Watchin' ... weather.'

'Eh?'

'Rain, rain, and more rain.'

'Urgh.'

'Perhaps you should go back to sleep until you can speak.'

I shuffled over and kissed him quickly.

'I will if you will.'

'We have the entire day ahead of us, we're not going to waste it sleeping.'

I sighed heavily as I sat down on the floor, leaning back against the chair with Stephen's legs on either side of me. I stared blankly and with blurry eyes at the early morning news programme. Stephen rubbed his fingers through my hair and down my shoulders; I played idly with his toes. I fell asleep at some point because one moment I was watching some story on a squirrel water skiing and the next moment I woke up with my head leaning against his knee ... and some chat show had replaced the news.  
His finger was rubbing a tender spot on my neck.

'You have a love bite ... how scandalous.'

'I do??'

I thought for a moment. Stephen didn't so much as kiss my neck last night. Even if he had, hickeys were far too tacky for his liking.  
His hands moved to rest on my shoulders. I reached up and touched my neck to find it wet with saliva.

'You're evil.'

'One does one's best.'

'Keep talking like that and we will spend the whole day in bed.'

His hands tightened slightly.

'I only said that we weren't sleeping the day away. I never ruled out the possibility of seeing how many times I can make you orgasm.'

'Have I said that you're evil?'

'I think you might've mentioned it.'

His hands slid down my chest as he moved forward so I could feel his breath against my ear. I think I groaned out loud. My own hands were rubbing back and forth across the tops of his feet.

'Are ... are we going to have breakfast?'

'I am.'

His tongue snaked its way into my ear. I closed my eyes, cocking my head to one side. When he'd finished with my ear, he moved down to my neck. After a few kisses, he turned my head to the side with his hand and licked my lips. That one elicited a less than manly whimper which was partially muffled by his kiss that seemed as if it would never end. During all the kissing, he managed to maneuver me around and down. I was so wrapped up in the kissing that it took a moment before I realised that we were dry humping on the floor. His hand slid down ... down ... down ... until it found its way into the front of my pyjama bottoms. My breath hitched at the touch of his fingers.  
Just as quickly as it entered, his hand withdrew. He looked down at me with a serious and determined expression.

'I think we really will breakfast first.'

'Waa... but...'

...and some noise that resembled "wibble".

'Words, my little tiki torch.'

'I want you.'

I thrust my hips up to illustrate my point, quite literally.

'I want you too, but I'm dreadfully hungry. We'll go out to some dive where people either don't know who we are or can't be bothered to care, eat a disgustingly cheap and unhealthy meal, and come back to our love nest bursting with energy. I promise I'll make up any lost time. Now, while I get dressed, I want you to look pretty for me. You can tame down the hair, but keep that shirt ... and wear your trousers that are too tight because I want everyone to see that delicious erection.'

I blushed.

'You just want to parade me around like I'm your little whore.'

'Exactly. Everyone's always jealous when I squire you all over town. They know, Hugh. It's not polite for anyone to acknowledge it, but they know.'

'Know what?'

'That I've staked my claim to every inch of your body. I can see it in their faces when they stare at us. They picture in their minds what it's like to look down and see your beautiful eyes looking back up while your perfect lips are sucking them off. Obviously, they picture you instead of me ... if they pictured me, they'd combust from too much pent up desire.'

'I think _I'm_ going to combust.'

'Ah, well, we can't have that. I'd hate like the dickens for you to burst into flame. I don't think charred Laurie would ever come out of white carpet.'

He kissed me again. I thought for a moment that he was giving up on his breakfast idea, but he was too soon pulling me to my feet and giving me a swift smack on the arse.

'Can't we just stay here?'

I poked my bottom lip out, giving my best sad and dejected expression.

'No. Looking adorable isn't going to change my mind. If you be a good boy and let me take you out for breakfast, I'll make it worth your while when we get back.'

I perked up, a million and one images running through my mind of what he meant... each one filthier than the last. Some I had to rule out because I knew he wouldn't do those, and others because we did those all the time. And, then, it dawned on me...

'You don't mean ...'

He smiled and gave a small nod.

'I'll even wear the bowler and call you sir.'

'What'd you do, steal it from set?'

He sort of half-rolled his eyes and stepped past me.

'I'm getting dressed, and I suggest you do the same.'

I stood there for a moment, watching the swish of the beaded curtain as he passed through it. 

That man is a marvel.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written June 2005)


	4. Stephen's Favourite Body Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

My favourite part of Hugh's body is his philtrum.

'What is a philtrum? And for God's sake, why is it your favourite bit of Hugh instead of [insert excitingly pretty body part here]?' you may well be asking yourself at this very moment.  
  
The philtrum is that dented in area just between the upper lip and nose. I dare say that it goes unremarked, unnoticed, and quite unloved on most people. Hugh's philtrum, on the other hand, is pure and simple eye candy. His philtrum often catches my eye when we're doing a scene together. Some would prolly think that I get lost in the cerulean pools of his eyes more than anything else. While I do enjoy his eyes, its the _infranasal depression_ which yields all manners of mental perversions on my part.

Even though it is true that we have sworn off intercourse at the workplace, that doesn't prevent us from stealing kisses at every available moment. And, by kiss I mean thorough tongue fucks often coupled with groping and sucking of one kind or another.

Sometimes I like to kiss him at a leisurely pace. Slowly rolling my tongue into his mouth, licking his tongue while he moans quietly, pulling it out quickly if he gets too over eager. Making him plead, more often times with a look instead of a word, is what really gets me in the mood for the rough and tumble. Other times, I'll hook my fingers into his belt loops, and shove him up against the nearest wall. Our tongues fight for dominance over whose mouth they prefer to reside in. Of course, we all know who eventually wins out in the dominance game.

He once came in his trousers because I licked his uvula. I was quite proud of myself. The look on his face ... unexpected ecstacy followed by the blush of embarrassment ... nearly made me need a costume change as well.

Speaking of costumes, working on a television programme which requires so many of them does have its own unique set of advantages. More on that at another time, for I'm afraid I've used up all of my alloted space for today.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written July 2005)


	5. On The Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: 2003-2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All drastic spelling, grammar, and punctuation flip-flopping is on purpose. Apologies to your brain. :D

Gregory House grunted as his body was thrust against his desk again and again. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, his fingers gripped the edge of the desk. His bottle of Vicodin spilled across the floor, forgotten along with the cane at his feet and his gimpy leg. The sweet, pleasurable pain coursing up his body was enough to make him forget nearly everything. He might have forgotten how to even speak properly had not every word only encouraged his partner more. Thankfully, the one thing he did remember to do was close the shades of his office.  
  
"Fuck!", he exclaimed for the countless time in a row.

It had been too long since the last time they had been together. So long, in fact, that they couldn't help but break their pledge to never again have sex in the workplace.

House cursed again as a tongue found its way to his ear. The tongue was soon replaced by hot breath.

'Mmmm, Gregory, darling ... red is such a whorish colour on you.'

It took House a moment to find the voice to reply, and then each word was separated with a grunt.

"You... would... know... best... about... whorish... colors... and... um... stuff."

'Stuff? Tisk, such common words you've picked up. I dare say that I do know about whorish, er, stuff because I know you.'

House gasped slightly as one hand moved from his hip to grasp his thigh.

'Isn't that supposed to hurt?'

"No, it's the other... one..."

'Are you sure, dearest?'

'Yes, I bloo ... um... I'm sure, dammit."

'Ah! Well, in that case ...'

Soon, there was a hand on his right thigh as well. He didn't acknowledge its presence, so the hand squeezed.

"Er... ouch?"

'You're a terrible actor.'

"Fuck you."

'No, but keep that tone up and I'll fuck _you_ all day. I rather like this side of you ... so aggressive ... makes the game all the more rewarding in the end.'

At the word "end", House was shoved even harder against the desk. A familiar heat inched its way up his spine as one of his lover's hands began to stroke him roughly.

"Are you... giving a hand job.... or... trying to start... a fire?"

'Both, actually. Now, do shut up like a good boy.'

Apart from gasping and profanities, House complied. He felt as though he might slip out of consciousness from the pleasure overload. After a particularly harsh thrust, he heard a rustle of papers.

House opened his eyes to find Wilson staring at him, trying to keep from dropping his armful of documents. From the fact that the office door was shut behind him to the deep flush on Wilson's face, it was obvious that he had not just stumbled into the room at that moment. House's brain seemed to have shut off, registering nothing but confusion at the fact he was still being rocked against the desk. His body chose that exact moment to relinquish its orgasm upon him.

"Get out!"

Wilson fumbled for the door.

"Shit... I'm... um... I'm sorry... I was just... I didn't mean... Sorry, Hugh."

With that, he exited quickly. Hugh slumped forward, wishing for the first time that Stephen would stop the assault up his arse.

'How long was he standing there?'

'Nearly the entire time.'

'Ugh.'

'Not to worry, dumpling, I believe young Robert was enjoying himself. In fact, he's still listening at the door.'

Hugh looked up from the desk. Robert's feet were, in fact, visible at the bottom of the shade.

'Pervert.'

'I think we should invite him over this weekend. Having a cute pervert frolicking in the bedroom could be fun.'

'I was meaning you were the pervert for letting him watch.'

'Well, I was referring to myself as the cute pervert frolicking about.'

'Hurry up back there, you're making my bum tired. I _do_ have to go back to work soon.'

'Yes, but this time your limp won't be false. We can always look back on this episode as a physical reminder of our libb.'

'You've got enough of those in the box under your bed.'

'And, my wallet.'

'Christ. You're still carrying those?'

'Shhhh. The longer you carry on like that, the longer it's going to take me. Be a dear and slide back a bit. Ahh. Thank you, petal. Now, say something medical.'

'Erm ... Macrogenitosomia?'

Stephen stopped.

'In American.'

"Intubate... hemoglobin... xerogram... bedpan... ow!"

Stephen forcefully shoved him against the desk; coming with the force of one who has been away from his lover for far too long. After a moment of heavy panting, Stephen stepped back to adjust his trousers. Hugh moved a bit more gingerly, trying to arrange his clothing in way that perhaps didn't give off a 'just got laid' appearance. His attempt failed miserably, but he tried none the less.

Stephen placed his hand on Hugh's chest.

'Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are, my dear Doctor House?'

A bright pink blush crossed Hugh's ears.

"I think you left bruises."

'Did I? Oh, how dreadfully careless of me. I suppose the only option is for you to exact your revenge tonight.'

"I'll be too tired tonight."

'Nonsense. I'll keep you awake. Do you think you can abduct your cane for one evening?'

"I'll try."

'Good. Now, let us be off to see if we can seduce good Doctor Wilson into a bit of debauchery this weekend.'

'I'm sure he's already heard your invitation. He _is_ listening at the door, remember.'

'Of course I remember ... I did invite him to watch.'

'You _invited_ him to watch?!'

'Come, come, Hugh, let's not dawdle. Don't you have to get back to the set?'

'We are on the set.'

Stephen sighed.

'Yes, my love, I mean the part of the set that you were supposed to have been on a half hour ago.'

Hugh looked at his watch as he retrieved his cane from the floor.

'You're an evil man, Stephen Fry.'  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written July 2005)


	6. Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

Thanks to Hugh's life time supply of Polaroid film, I have become something of a shutterbug. If you were to look under the bed, you would find an entire shoe box filled with photographs ranging from innocent to indecent. Also under the bed you would find a half empty bottle of baby oil, a tiara, six pairs of shoes, a spider web, a tie that Hugh is convinced that he left in an Aberdeen motel, a single purple sock, and two items which shouldn't be mentioned in polite company.  


The shoe box makes Hugh nervous. He's convinced himself that we're going to get burgled and the photographic documentation of our love is going to be splashed across the tabloids. In truth, it's not the box he should be worried about. There are six slots in my wallet and five of them are home to photos of Hugh. The sixth slot houses a small, pressed wild flower that he gave me while on holiday last spring.  
I shall now endeavour to describe the photographs for you, dear reader.

Photograph 1:  
Hugh asleep in the studio canteen. His head is resting on his arms and he has the most adorable small smile. He's wearing a pink shirt ... _my_ pink shirt, I'd like to point out. It's a lovely picture. I wish you could see it.

Photograph 2:  
Hugh from the neck up, his face contorted from being at the moment of orgasm. His head is tilted back and turned to the right. His mouth is open and his eyes are almost closed. He's also drenched with sweat. I can look at the photo and almost hear him cry out those sweet profanities. I took this while we were having a long and rough fuck fest one afternoon. I'm surprised it turned out as well as it did. It's not easy to take a photo while not only fucking, but also being accidentally kicked in the ear. If he was anyone else, I wouldn't put up with the thrashing. Though, if he was anyone else, I wouldn't be in a position to find out if they thrashed about or not.

Photograph 3:  
There's not really much to explain about this one. Hugh tossing off. He'd only just started at the time I took the photo, so it is little more than him with his hand down his shorts and smiling at the camera with a 'fuck me now' expression. The only exceptionally remarkable thing about the photo is that he's wearing a rugby uniform which we had stolen a pair of, from the studio, for our own perversions.

Photograph 4:  
[ed. note: this one has not yet been described]

Photograph 5:  
A self photograph taken in front of our dressing room mirror. There is an orange blotch on the corner from the camera's flash, but it's still one of my favourite photos. I would like to have this one enlarged and framed so that I may hang it on the wall of our love nest. However, this isn't the sort of photo one takes to the chemist for duplicates.  
I took this one after one of the few times that we've broken the sex in the studio rule. I'm standing behind Hugh, one hand on his lower stomach and the other holding the camera. His right hand is on my head, fingers wrapped in my hair. His head is cocked to the left; showing off a bright pink hickey on his neck. His eyes are closed and mine are open, looking at the mirror. I'm biting his ear. He has the most lewd expression across his face.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written July 2005)


	7. Fumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1978-1981

I bit my lower lip and stared up at the ceiling. We had been ... or rather I should say, _Hugh_ had been fumbling for the better part of twenty minutes. The reasons for his fumblings had been that at long last I had consented to his demands that he, well, be on top as it were.  


We had started out in the usual manner one normally adopts for these things with the first-timer. Not that, I believe, I've ever had the previous misfortune of schooling someone in the art of fucking ... but I imagine my being face down and at the ready would afford him the easiest access. I can't claim to be an expert in the bottoming department, as I'd only been on the receiving end once before. That experience was neither a comfortable nor a loving one, and I had thought that I would never put myself into such a position again. However, feelings that I have for Hugh and that manipulative gaze of his finally relinquished my opposition to his requests.

At first, we tried it with me on all fours. The problem with that was every time he'd attempt to push forward, my seriously out of practice arse would cause me to make a pained groan or 'ow'. Of course, the poor dear was already worried to death that he was going to hurt me ... so needless to say, he'd stop at every noise. I got rather tired in that position, so we tried him laying on top of me, still face down. This seemed like it was going to work, however he couldn't get it in. He would alternate between humping away, thinking it was in, to stabbing me rather smartly in the tail bone. This position wouldn't do at all either.

Next we tried the above mentioned position with me on my back, while Hugh mostly sat there with a confused and determined expression ... but neither attempting nor accomplishing anything. I told him just to do me how he would a girl, if that would help. It turned out that Emma was a take charge in the bedroom kind of woman. So, Hugh had never really done anything apart from lie there and let her do all the work.

By this point, he was starting to apologise profusely and I was becoming less and less in the mood. Finally, once I'd completely lost my erection, I told him to shut up and administered a quick blow job. While an orgasm is an orgasm and he drifted off to a peaceful sleep, his face nestled against my neck, I lay there listening to his whiffling while trying to come up with a solution to our problem. Perhaps Emma's approach to the subject would be the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	8. Hypnotism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1995-2002

'Hypnotism?!' I exclaimed (much more loudly than I'd meant to), as I glanced over the pages at Stephen.

He looked up from his breakfast at me and shrugged.

'Do you really think people are going to keep believing a compulsive liar when his lies keep getting more implausible? I'm surprised they bought the celibacy thing ... shows how people will believe anything about a celebrity ... but this ...'

'I can't very well talk about why I have musical stage fright and then have someone bring up _Saturday Live_ , now can I?'

'Despite the fact that my so-called trigger phrase was actually said by you?'

'Was it? Oh, dear. Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to write from memory. I doubt anyone has a copy of that rubbish anyway.'

'Okay, then, how about the time Jeeves sang like a chorus of girls?'

'Er.'

I grinned at his faltering expression. It wasn't very often that I got the chance to make him be at a loss for words. My victory celebration only lasted a moment before a small smile formed across his lips.

'Would you rather I told them the truth, dearest? That you coerced me into singing by refusing sex ... and, then, the moment we walked off stage, I whisked you into the dressing room and fucked you over the make-up table. Would that suit your sudden passion for truthfulness?'

He had me there.

'Urm ...'

'Despite what you think about people believing anything, they wouldn't believe that. I could bugger you on live television and they'd think it was a joke. Of course, it would be a joke ... just not the kind they think it is. Now, do stop playing junior editor and leave me to my eggs before I decide to write a tell-all about Cambridge.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	9. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

Hugh fell back onto the bed, panting with exertion and wet with sweat.

'My god, Stephen ... that was ... I ... um ...'

'I thought you might like that.' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	10. Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

Stephen stood by the bed, dressed in only his pink shirt. I was on the bed, dressed in only a blissed-out smile. My feet were against his shoulders and he held my legs as tightly together as he could without doing too much damage to either one of us. All the while he was pounding away inside of me, grunting out various obscenities. My eyes were clenched so tightly that I could see bits of light behind my eyelids. I was gasping and groaning, unable to thrash properly for him holding my legs. I came a moment before he did, when the first twitching of his impending orgasm rippled inside of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	11. Lucy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

She was a lovely creature, tall and with gorgeously large blue eyes. She liked to lean seductively against the piano ... just enough so her frilly, pink panties could be seen from up under her obscenely short skirt. She was a girl of loose virtue and I was her lecherous John. I would peel her panties off and fuck her from behind while standing, never touching her front regions. I would call _him_ Lucy and this was one of the games we liked to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	12. Pink 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

I was wearing that pink shirt again. I've found that one of Hugh's kinks is my pink shirt for some odd reason. Perhaps it's because I've conditioned him to associate it with sex. In any case, I was wearing it on this occasion as well.

He was laying on the floor and I was on my knees, straddling him somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach region. He had one of his hands on my thigh, the other on his dick ... alternating between rubbing it against any of my body parts that it could reach and rubbing it in general. I was perched over him, feverishly masturbating while staring into his eyes.

There is nothing in the world quite as pornographically sexy as a cum splattered Hugh. However, the revolted expression on his face as I licked it off his neck is a close second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	13. Bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

I sometimes get bruises on my upper arm from when Stephen's holding on while he's fucking me. He doesn't mean to bruise, he just simply presses down too hard ... and the next thing I know, I have a thumb or sometimes hand shaped bruise. He gets worried that someone will see it and think he's hurting me. I get worried that someone will see it and know that he's loving me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	14. Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

'Hugh!', came the cry from the bedroom.

There was such a level of distress in Stephen's voice that my heart felt like it jumped right up and out of my throat all together.

'Hugh! Hurry!'

I tripped over my own feet, stumbled through the beaded curtain, and down the hallway ... half expecting to find ... well, I don't know what I expected to find. Every worst case scenario ran through my brain as I reached the bedroom door, panting and taking in the scene. Overall the bedroom looked normal ... as normal as our den of debauchery (as Stephen sometimes calls it) ever looks. Stephen, however, had retreated to the far corner of the room, the book he was reading lay abandoned on the bed.

'What is it?! What's wrong?!'  
  
He pointed in the direction of the bedside lamp.

'Get it! Get it! Get it!'

It took me a moment to realise what exactly I was supposed to be getting. Fluttering about the lamp was a tiny moth. I sighed ... with relief that it was only a bug and also with annoyance that it was _only_ a bug. I tried to be amused enough to not get angry over the absurdity of the situation, but not so amused that I laughed.

I padded across the room and caught the moth in my hand on the second try. Once I'd flung the moth out the front door, I returned to the bedroom to find Stephen sitting on the bed, eying the lamp with a look of suspicion and mistrust ... as if the lamp was in on it. He smiled at me.

'Thank you.'

I gave him two quick kisses. One on the top of the head, the other on the lips. 

I was grateful that he didn't call me his hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	15. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1978-1981

Snow was falling all around us as we stood out in the court yard, having a quick smoke between classes. Hugh was shivering and sniffling ... poor lamb had a cold. He was trying to scrunch down into his clothing as best he could. His cheeks, nose, and ears had turned a bright pink. The cold didn't bother me in the slightest, so I unwrapped my scarf and put it round his neck instead. He nodded a thank you all the while with the most miserable and ill expression on his face. I trailed a finger along his icy cheek. His eyes closed at my touch. Previous to this moment, the only times I had touched him could have been dismissed as lapses of judgment while we were drunk and/or high.

He neither opened his eyes nor moved, apart from shivering, while I stroked his cheek. I remember staring at him for what seemed like hours, though I'm sure it was only mere moments. I leaned down a bit and kissed him. It was only meant to be a quick, chaste kiss. While I didn't care if some troglodyte happened by at that moment to shout "queer" (or one of a dozen other words) in my general direction, which I'm sorry to say happened more than a few times in my youth, I didn't want to risk any idiocy or potential social stigma being directed towards Hugh. No wonder I have a mother hen reputation when it comes to him.

As it happened, it was a quick kiss ... but it was far from chaste. Once my lips touched his, he opened his mouth as a willing invitation that I simply couldn't resist. I dipped my tongue inside to taste not only the cigarettes and Jelly Tots (which I'd shared with him moments earlier), I could taste that unmistakable flavour which is his and his alone. It wasn't to last but perhaps half of a second before a horribly congested sound came from the area of his chest and he broke our kiss to gasp. I rubbed his back, remembering that always helped me to feel better during those damnable asthma-inducing summer months ... when I could actually find someone to do such a nice thing for me. Once he'd caught his breath, he apologised with the heavily accented voice one tends to get when their nose is stopped up.

'Su surree ... cand breafe frough nuse. A feely fanted to fiss oo.'

He looked up at me with the saddest, puppy dog-like eyes he could muster. Sadder even more because the lack of oxygen had caused them to tear up.

'It's all right, Hugh.'

I kissed him on the cheek.

'A hobe A diden gife oo mah culd.'

'Don't worry about it. It was worth it if you did. And, besides, if we both were ill, we could carry on with conversations that no one would understand.'

He did his best to smile. 

I came down with a cold by the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	16. Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

Stephen stumbled through the beaded curtain into the lounge, giggling. I sat the copy of _Punch_ , that I had been flipping through, down and glared up at him.

'Are you high?'

He didn't answer, only half-rolled his eyes and sniffed. He wasted no time before he joined me on the sofa, immediately covering me in kisses and pawing at my clothes. The sensible part of me wanted to push him away, but the parts of me which were actually in control compelled me to stay. It's not that I've never been guilty of having sex under the influence of various substances in various combinations, but I'm not exactly a fan of being on the receiving end when he's like _this_. It makes him too horny, too careless, and it gives him a hard on that refuses to die. 

On this night, I let him fuck me until I couldn't stand it any longer. I left him on the floor while I walked out onto the veranda, naked. I gave the rug burns on my knees a quick inspection before lighting a cigarette. I leaned against the railing and looked up at the sky, wishing that the light pollution didn't drown out the stars. It was a warm night overall, but the slight breeze was chilly against my wet skin.

I heard the sliding glass door behind me open and shut. A moment later there was a pair of arms wrapped round me, followed by a kiss on my ear and then my shoulder, where he left his face to rest.

He mumbled against me, 'Are you angry?'

I sighed.

'No.'

'I don't want you to be angry with me.'

'I'm _not_ angry ... just tired.'

'I lo ... er ... I care about you so much.'

'I know you do. And, I love you. Can we just go to sleep for the night?'

He nodded.

I couldn't sleep at all that night. And, considering there wasn't any snoring from the other side of the bed, I don't think he slept either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	17. Inebriate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

If Hugh drinks too much, he'll start crying. Most of the time it's heartbreaking and I do everything I can to cheer him up. Other times, it just pisses me off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	18. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

Stephen likes to lie on the floor while watching television. Sometimes when he's on his back, I'll sit on his stomach and we'll interlace our fingers. I love the way he looks as he smiles up at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	19. Food Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: 2003-2005

Stephen and Hugh are sitting in the food court at the mall. The middle of the food court is partitioned off because it's under construction. They sit at a small table next to the partition, alone and away from most of the people. Hugh has a half eaten slice of pizza in front of him. Stephen pokes at noodles on his plate with a spork during the entire conversation, but never once actually eats any.

'So, er, this is what you do for fun now, is it?'

Hugh sighs and looks lugubrious.

'No. I don't do _anything_ for fun. But, sometimes if I don't have a change of scenery, I'll go completely stir crazy.'

'Come, come, surely you must do something ... or some one.'

Hugh glances up.

'Well ... I do go to the gym on weekends when I'm not too tired.'

'There, see, that's something at least.'

Stephen points, with his spork, to a girl coming down the escalator.

'I would kill for a skirt like that.'

Hugh turns to glance at the orange skirted girl, then smirks back at Stephen.

'Because you'd look really nice in a girl's skirt.'

'I meant so I could see you wear it.'

Hugh's ears turn a bit pink, so he returns his attention to his pizza. He doesn't eat the pizza, but rather picks various toppings off and drops them on the plate. A few moments of silence pass until a woman in a tight dress passes. Hugh watches her. Stephen watches Hugh watch her.

'Something you'd like to share with the rest of us, darling?'

Hugh shrugs.

'She has a nice ass.'

Stephen turns his head to look.

'Hmm ... yes, she does. However, _his_ arse is much better.'

Hugh cranes his neck to see.

'Where?'

'Just over there ... by the post cards.'

'You're right.'

They return to the non-eating of their meal.

'I'm amazed you haven't been mobbed by your public so far today. No adoring fans squeeing in your ear ...'

'Squeeing?'

'Um ... like squealing ...'

'Internet?'

Stephen nods.

'It's not so amazing. They don't recognise me if I clean myself up. I'll get people thinking I'm their cousin's ex-boyfriend or some random person that they have no idea why they know my face. That's until I say something ... and then they'll know that they don't know me from anywhere. Every once in a while I'll get a real fan.'

'It's not like it is at home?'

'Noooo.'

'No yelling in the streets?'

'Hardly. If someone yells at me on the street it's because I've bumped into them on accident.'

'Has that happened?'

'Not yet. You've been here.'

'Yes, but I wasn't on their television every Tuesday. I'm only a weekly burden in the British household.'

Once again, they return to the process of not eating their greasy mall food. Hugh finishes the last of his Mr.Pibb and begins to slurp the remaining few drops up with his straw, loudly. Stephen, mildly annoyed at the sound, slips off his shoe and slowly slides his foot between Hugh's legs. Hugh stops sucking on the straw.

'You do realise that we're in plain view of anywho who passes by?'

Stephen smiles.

'I know.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	20. Breaking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1995-2002

Hugh stood before me, a miserable sight. His eyes were clenched tightly, tears pouring down his face. His body shook with his nearly silent sobs, but otherwise he didn't move. I searched for what to say to him. What could I say? Even in such a wretched state, he was beautiful. However, it was heart breaking beauty .... heart broken beauty. Worst of all is that I was the cause.

It had started as only a bit of afternoon flirtation and somehow it had turned into the worst moment of my life. Yes, worse than anything else you know ... or think you know.

'Mmmm ... perhaps you'd like it banana flavoured?'

I pushed against him, licking his deliciously pink ear.

'Stop.'

I began to pull on his belt, but he pushed my hand away.

'I'm serious, Stephen. Just. Stop. This perpetually horny, gayest man in Britain act is wearing a bit thin.'

'At least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not.'

'Yes, you are. Screwing me does not equate to celibacy.'

'Need I remind you that the story was to cover for you? If it were up to me, we'd be snogging in public and holding hands everywhere we went. I'm tired of being your secret ... of this being a joke. I don't think it'd make a difference one way or the other if you came out.'

'You know that's not true.'

'Sometimes I feel like you're ashamed of me ... of us ... of yourself.'

'Well, sometimes I feel like you don't love me.'

'Dearest, that's the furthest thing from the truth.'

'Why don't you ever say it, then? You've never ever told me directly that you love me.'

'Haven't I?'

'No. You've said it in reference to me, but you've never once looked me in the eyes and said it.'

'I love you, Hugh. I love you more than anything. You could take all of the love in the world and it wouldn't equal the love I feel for you.'

'Do you love me more than _him_?'

If there ever was an award for the biggest fuck up of all time, I would receive it for this moment in which I hesitated. I heaved a huge sigh and looked down at the floor. I couldn't look at him. 

'It's not the same thing.'

'Of course it's not. I didn't fuck with your head. I loved you.'

I immediately looked up at that extra _d_.

'Loved?'

'I don't think I can do this anymore.'

'Hugh ...'

This is the point in which his eyes closed and the tears started.

'It hurts too much.'

'Hugh, I'm sorry. I never meant for this to hurt you.'

I kissed him, tasting the tears on his lips. He didn't kiss me in return, only licked his lips after I'd pulled away. I was trying my hardest to hold my own grief inside. I'm sure it was written across my face, but his eyes weren't open to see.

'I should go. I should've been there ten minutes ago.'

I turned to leave just as he said, 'I do love you, Stephen. I just need to get my head sorted out.'

I nodded and left. The moment the door shut behind me, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I thought I'd felt heart break before, but that was nothing compared to the crushing pain of absolute misery. The prospect of a life without your true love, isn't a life worth living.

It was several months before we saw each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	21. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

'Ow! Ow! Ow!'

'What's the matter?'

'Erm, nothing, really. It's - It's just a bit tender down there.'

'Why?'

'Welllll .... I, erm, that is to say ... um ... I did something today ....'

He looked down, a bit uncertain as if he should tell me whatever it was that had caused his delicate bits to be in such pain. I could only raise my eyebrows and look at him with silent questions.

'Don't be angry, Stephen.'

'I'm not going to be angry, just tell me what you did.'

'Erm, maybe I should just show you.'

Before I could respond, he had unzipped his trousers, gently freed his cock ... and there it was ....

My mouth opened in stunned silence. I looked from it to Hugh, whose ears were blushing a bright pink.

'What on earth possessed you to do that to yourself?!'

He shrugged as his thumb absently rubbed at the ring. I dropped to my knees to have a better look at it. While I admit that there was a part of me which was growing rather fond of the new jewelry, most of me decided that _it_ had to go. Not only because I don't think Hugh should change himself in any way, since he's already utter perfection, but because that thing had to be much more painful than he was letting on. The problem with this was that Hugh likes a bit of pain ... I don't. I'll play act, I'll toss him onto the bed, I'll shove him against a wall, I'll even fuck the living daylights out of him ... but there is a line that I won't cross. Well, most of the time I won't cross it. He's very manipulative like that.

Which brings us back to the present situation with his thumb rubbing against the increasingly moist Prince Albert.

'You don't like it ... do you?'

'Would you be terribly offended if I said no?'

He sighed.

'I'll take it out.'

I pried his hand away from the ring.

'You can take it out tomorrow.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	22. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

Hugh wandered into the lounge wearing  _my_  pink shirt (unbuttoned), his undies, and a pair of hideously luminous green slouch socks. I think he was trying for something of a  _Risky Business_  look. It failed in the socks department because, as I tried to convince him when he bought them, those were very ugly girls' socks. Not that I minded, but slouch socks are only one step away from leg warmers. Personally, I will be quite happy when the '80s are gone and they take their fashions, or lack there of, with them. I only describe Hugh's choice of outfit in such detail because, in truth, it was quite the scrumptious vision to behold considering it left almost nothing to the imagination. Since we're on the topic, I had on his black Harley Davidson t-shirt (which was snug) and his pyjama bottoms that featured pictures of hot dogs dressed as chefs (which fit just fine, thank you).   
  
To complete the visual he also was wearing the bracelet that he had only recently taken to, erm, wearing. It was a cheap, children's plastic bracelet which consisted of pink and purple beads ... the pink being the same colour as both his watch and my shirt. He tried it on in the store as a joke, but I told him that it made him look positively fuckable .... He hasn't taken it off since. Last night, I had him on his back, fucking him harder than I usually like to. He had managed to latch his fingers into my hair, tugging it rather smartly, as he yelled out things that I don't think even I could dare to repeat. I would have protested to the pulling, but I loved the way the bracelet felt as it rubbed and banged against my ear. Needless to say, it was a very quick and painful session last night, but it gave him quite the spring to his step today. I can't remember the last time I've seen him so chipper.  
  
He was grinning down at me, no doubt between the spoonfuls of the ice cream he was eating from one of those ghastly plastic bowls that he had contributed to our love nest's kitchen. That bowl, even with its fish pattern, was a step up from his collection of drinking glasses featuring (shudder)  _The Smurfs_. I sat my Vanity Smurf glass of Dandelion and Burdock down on the table and glanced up at him. I had been staring at his thighs since he walked into the room, but I looked up at his face to see the above mentioned grin. He seemed extremely full of himself. I couldn't help but think that I'd have preferred he be full of  _myself_  instead. He wanted to say something so badly that he was nearly bouncing in place.   
  
'Yes, Hugh? Say it before you burst.'  
  
'Happy birthday!!!'  
  
'Thank you, darling. What flavour is that?'  
  
'Banana.'  
  
'Mmmmm ....'  
  
'I got it for your birthday.'  
  
'That was thoughtful of you ... even if you are eating it by yourself. Do you think I might have a taste?'  
  
He put another spoonful of the ice cream into his mouth before dipping down and kissing me. Second-hand ice cream is much better than one would think. As I worked on lapping every bit of it from his tongue, he maneuvered himself so that he was sitting on my lap, straddling me. I placed my hands on his bum. I did this partially to pull him closer, partially to keep him from sliding off the chair, but mostly just for the sake of grabbing that arse. When he pulled back, he momentarily sat the bowl down on the table so he could pull the Harley t-shirt up and over my head. He kissed me but once more before he grabbed the bowl again. He managed to only get half of a spoonful into my mouth before he rather deliberately let the rest of it dribble down my neck.  
  
'Oops.'  
  
'Christ, that's cold.'  
  
Not surprisingly, his tongue was soon at work following the sticky banana flavoured trail. I shifted below him, trying my best not to make odd noises.  
  
'You do realise how cliché this is, don't you?'  
  
He lifted his head from my collar bone, his tongue still out.  
  
'I could stop.'  
  
'Don't you dare.'  
  
I dipped my thumb into the bowl. He set the bowl to the side before grabbing my hand with both of his, and lifting it to his mouth. His eyes closed as he sucked on my thumb in a most indecent manner.  
  
'I adore that whorish mouth of yours.'  
  
I slid my other hand round with the intent of initiating a hand job, but he quickly slid my hand down to grasp his thigh instead. As I was getting ready to move my hand back to behind him again for fear of him tumbling backwards off the chair, he slid down from my lap and onto the floor ... dislodging my thumb from his mouth with a wet pop in the process.    
  
Hugh stretched out on the floor, looking at me and licking his lips ... all the while rubbing himself slowly. I moved down to the floor with the intent of first removing those offending socks. The moment I touched the calf of his leg, he bucked his hips up and moaned. He made similar noises as I removed his socks, tossing them across the room and out of sight. He opened his legs wide and inviting as I placed my hands on his inner thighs. As I slid them closer, he once again pushed my hands away.  
  
Instead of allowing me to stroke him, he pushed against my shoulders and soon I was the one on the floor. He glared down at me with the most predatory of looks in his eyes. Within moments, the only article of clothing between us was the shirt in which he was only partially wearing. I say partially because it kept slipping off his shoulders and eventually was only held on at his elbows. He had been pushing the shirt back up into its proper place every time it slid down until he started fucking me ... he was far too distracted to bother with it at that point, I should think. I was the one who was inside of him, but make no mistake that he was the one doing the fucking.    
  
He sat on my dick, his hands splayed across my chest, pushing me in and out. He started slowly, but was soon slamming himself back as hard as he could ... his eyes closed and his mouth grunting with each thrust. I was crying out to the point of nearly yelling. I could say little more than things such as "uh" and "fuh-uh". I made another grab for him, but he slapped my hand away ... hard. Or, rather, I assume he slapped it hard as I couldn't feel anything apart from pleasure and friction, but I could hear the loud slap.    
  
Moving his arms up to the carpet on either side of my head, and looping his fingers into my hair, he kissed me. And, by kiss, I mean that the moment he'd teased my tongue out of my mouth, he sucked on it. He sucked on my tongue until I felt his cock twitch against my stomach and it spilled its warm, sticky contents all of the way up and across my chest to my neck. He released my tongue, kissed my lips a couple of times, and then gave one of his mischievous smiles. He took a deep breath before descending upon me again. He trailed his tongue up my chest in a similar manner as he had with the ice cream, only this time with a much more perverse quality. I was only vaguely aware that he looked as though he was going to gag because the vision of Hugh licking his own spunk off of me caused me to shoot my load straight up his arse.    
  
He slid up to disengage us before settling in on top of me, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. I wrapped my arms around his lower back and hugged his sweaty body to mine.   
  
'I love you, Stephen.'  
  
I brought his arm up and kissed his wrist just above the bracelet.  
  
'You're beautiful.'  
  
'Happy birthday.'  
  
I arranged the shirt a bit more properly on him as he drifted off to sleep. I stared up at the ceiling, holding him and wondering if he'd saved me any ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written August 2005)


	23. Quiet Sobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of a quiet sob. I knew it was coming from Hugh's side of the bed. Not only because we were the only ones in the room, but because I had heard that sound on more occasions than I could possibly ever hope to count. I looked over and could only just make out his shape. His back was to me and he was wearing a black t-shirt, so he was near impossible to see. After a moment of watching him, I could make out the movement of his shoulders as his body shook. I watched him, not wanting him to know that I was awake and had caught him crying against his pillow. Slowly, I reached out a hand to his back. His breath caught at my touch. I rubbed his back in silence until his crying stilled. Once I was sure that he had calmed down, I slid close and wrapped my arm around his waist. I kissed the back of his neck and nestled against his ear.  
  
'Are you ok?' I whispered.  
  
'... yes.'  
  
'Liar.'  
  
He didn't say anything else. He put his hand on mine and was soon asleep.    
  
I didn't sleep until sometime after daybreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written September 2005)


	24. High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salacious Scribblings Of The Perpetual Black Cloud  
> 1982-1994

I was drunk. And, when I say drunk I mean pissed completely off my arse fall down silly drunk. In fact, I had fallen down on my arse. I sat on the floor, beer in hand, my head swimming with alcohol and lust. Not to mention the fact that the only light in the lounge came from the two lava lamps which were blobbing along happily in the corner. It was light ... dark ... light ... dark .... My eyelids were feeling heavy and the constant shift between light and dark was making me a bit sea sick. It seemed as if it took forever for Stephen to finally emerge through that horrid beaded curtain. He was smiling around the Marlboro red that was perched between his lips. As he sat down in front of me, I reached out and plucked the cigarette from his mouth and put it in my own.    
  
As he took it back, he said, 'Here ... try this ...'  
  
I didn't know what  _this_  was and I didn't care. He had something small in his hand which he placed at my nose, telling me to sniff hard. Which I did. Of course, I did.  
  
There was maybe a billion different sensations happening all at once. First my nose felt as if it were on fire. As I was rubbing it, my face started to feel numb. Then, I remember a nasty taste running down my throat ... and then ... oh ... and then ... it was as if the big bang of orgasms hit me. I threw my head back and gasped, vaguely aware that Stephen was going through similar motions.  
  
My memory goes a bit black for a moment or two because the next thing I remember is being flat on my back with Stephen's tongue trying its best to shimmy down my throat. I vaguely remember wondering why we still had our clothes on and that he was humping me so hard that it almost felt like we really were fucking. There was a lot of gasping, a lot of kissing, and lots of very rough rubbing of our collective bits and bobs. If I remember correctly, he was kissing my neck when I made a rather unmanly noise and came with considerable force in my trousers. I didn't care. I felt wonderful. Every inch of my body felt the most alive it had felt in a long time. I'd have let him continue to grind me into the floor, or whatever else he'd have liked to do to me, all night.  
  
I suppose he knew what I'd done because he slid off of me, returning to his sitting position. Only this time, by the time the lava lamps had made their cycle back to light again, he had his trousers down round his feet and had started wanking off. Part of me wanted to just watch him ... his eyes closed, mouth open, dark hair fallen across his face, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows (I don't remember the colour shirt, but I could imagine), one hand propping himself up while the other was very busy at work ... and his ankles tethered together by the trousers. If I had use of anything beyond the basic motor functions, I'd have taken a picture. The other part of me won the battle of wills, causing me to roll over and crawl to him.    
  
It's always a good indication that Stephen's high when he starts toying with my hair as if I were a pet and calling me "pretty". He hates the word "pretty". As I was making with a rather unskilled and uncomfortable blow job, he was petting at my head and sighing softly.  
  
'You're so pretty ... so ... so ... pretty ...."  
  
And, erm ... you get the idea. Aside from just becoming a rather annoying and horny blighter, another down side is that this stuff gives him a raging hard on which absolutely refuses to go away. By suck or by fuck, it's there to stay. Well, stay for about half an hour ... but once you come down, you hit hard and aren't in the mood for love. In fact, you go from feeling like you're the greatest man to ever live to suddenly feeling like absolute shite in about the span of two seconds flat. I learned this one the hard way. Even harder considering that at the exact moment my high bottomed out, I gagged. At least I had enough presence of mind to move my head quickly so that I puked across the white carpet instead of on Stephen.    
  
I felt horrible. I felt bad not for only staining the carpet, but for everything I'd ever done wrong. Every failure, every self doubt, everything I'd ever felt any degree of unhappiness about hit me all at once like a great wave of despair. I wiped at my eyes and mouth with my shirt sleeve before looking over to Stephen ... expecting him to be angry over the carpet. He smiled and his eyes slipped shut as he stretched out on the floor, his hand returning to its previous business.  
  
'I want more.'  
  
He hummed before replying in a sing-song voice, 'You can't have it.'  
  
'But ...'  
  
'No.'  
  
'Why?'  
  
'Because I lo - you too much. Just fun ... one only .... You're so pretty."  
  
I curled up against him, listening to his mumbling while I sobbed against his chest until I fell asleep.   
  
To his credit, he never made any indication that he was angry over my getting sick on the carpet. Once we completely failed at getting rid of the stain, we moved the furniture slightly to cover it. Over the years that followed, we became very good at covering up things we didn't want people to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written September 2005)


	25. Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: 1982-1994

Somehow between the two of them, they had decided to go to the States on holiday. In fact, not only go to America, but to spend the week in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. It belonged to the cousin of a friend of a friend, but neither Hugh nor Stephen could remember which friend nor whose cousin owned this bit of rustic wonder. They also could not for the life of them remember how exactly they had decided to go to the cabin so far from home in the first place. When asked, Hugh would insist that it had been Stephen's insane idea completely. Stephen, on the other hand, would say that it was Hugh's fault and that he never much liked the idea, thank you very much.   
  
Regardless of how exactly their excursion to the great outdoors had come about, any gusto they possessed left the moment they stepped from the taxi and were forced to carry their luggage and shopping down the seemingly endless trail that was too narrow for a car. The conversation was sparse at best, consisting mostly of cursing. Stephen cursed nature and the bag of soup tins that was cutting off the circulation to his fingers, Hugh cursed the luggage, Stephen cursed Hugh's luggage, Hugh cursed Stephen for cursing his luggage, and so on. Hugh would stop to light a cigarette and Stephen would sneeze and tell him to please hurry up before something rather nasty came bounding out of the woods and devoured the both of them. They trudged on through the ankle-deep leaves, brush, and who-knows-whats, dragging most of their belongings behind them.    
  
At last, they reached the cabin. Upon sight of it, they stopped in their tracks. Stephen sat down on the larger of his suitcases. Hugh lit another cigarette, then passed it down to Stephen. The cabin, if that's what they were calling places such as this these days, looked as if it had been both built and abandoned sometime around the time the British still staked a claim to these parts. The wood had turn a sickly shade and the windows looked filthy ... the windows that weren't broken, that is. With a great heaving sigh, Stephen returned to his feet and they continued forward.    
  
Upon reaching the front door, Hugh looked under the small statue of a frog to find the rusty key exactly where they had been told it would be. He looked up, intending on handing it to Stephen, but Stephen had gone inside already since the door wasn't even locked to begin with. The inside of the cabin was no palace, it wasn't even an East End flat, but it was a far improvement over the outside of the building. The main room featured a brown couch, a table, a fire place, and a ludicrous bear skin rug. This room and the kitchen were, in essence, one room as the only thing that divided the two was a bar which served as the dining area. The other doors in the cabin lead to: an empty cupboard, a cupboard with a pad lock on the door (They later broke the lock off to find liquor, a fishing rod, a small television, and a broken oar), a room the size of a cupboard which housed a disturbing toilet among its other inadequate facilities, and the last room was the bedroom.    
  
They dropped their bags onto the floor of the bedroom the moment they set foot into it and took it in ... in all of its glory. In addition to the bed was a small table with a vase of dust covered false flowers beside an equally dust covered telephone. Wonders never cease that a cabin so far from civilisation would have a working phone and electricity. The bed unto itself was a sorry sight, but a welcome sight none the less. It was small with only one pillow and an unpleasant looking red quilt draped over it.   
  
Hugh frowned.    
  
'You ... erm ... you didn't bring any linens with you, by chance?'  
  
Stephen frowned even more.  
  
'No. Quite truthfully, I didn't think we would need them. I was expecting something more .... Well, something more.'  
  
'Hmmm.'  
  
'Don't worry, dearest. We'll make do and survive. We can be rustic. We are men, after all.'  
  
He swooped down and planted a quick kiss on Hugh's lips. When he stepped back, Hugh's ears blushed brightly as he licked his lips and let out a tiny giggle. Stephen smiled.  
  
'We're doomed, aren't we?'  
  
'Probably.'  
  
'Ah, well. I'm going to go unpack our food before it becomes rancid. You can be a dear and shake the dust and mould out of the sheets ... and that ugly, red blankety thing.'  
  
Stephen spent the better part of the next hour unpacking the bags of food and trying to eradicate the stale stink of the cabin. Hugh spent the same time jostling the bed clothes slightly before slipping off his shoes and taking a nap.    
  
Some time later, Hugh awoke to the deeply paranoid feeling of being watched. His paranoia was upgraded to reality when Stephen kissed him.  
  
'Wake up, sleepy head. I made lu-sup-din ... er ... whatever meal label is appropriate for now.'  
  
Hugh opened one eye to find Stephen just above him, staring back.  
  
'You can't cook.'  
  
'While I admit that heating Beanee Weenies ...'  
  
'I'm almost afraid to ask.'  
  
'... requires no special skills, I did accomplish a damn sight more than you did.'  
  
Hugh opened his other eye and ran his fingers through Stephen's hair.  
  
'I'm sure you did. Must we eat now? I can think of a few things, you know, that I'd rather do.'  
  
'Do you know how absolutely beautiful you are when you first wake up? And, yes, we do have to eat before it gets cold. I know for a fact you haven't eaten anything apart from sweets all day.'  
  
'Neither have you.'  
  
'All the more reason we should go try to enjoy the culinary delights that I slaved over all afternoon.'  
  
Hugh rolled his eyes. A moment later, Stephen was helping him to his feet and giving him a firm slap on the arse.  
  
While Hugh had slept, Stephen had made some effort at tidying up the place. Mostly, the tidying consisted of moving the dust from one spot to another. He had also started a fire in the fireplace and lit the jar candles he had purchased when they bought supplies. There was a vaguely pine scent in the air from the Lysol he had found behind the toilet ... which was also much less disturbing thanks to a once-over with the scrub brush.  
  
As dusk descended, the interior of the cabin took on an orange, warm glow. Upon finishing their unappetizing meal, Hugh and Stephen retired to the brown, slightly scratchy couch. They watched the fire crackle, their fingers interlocking with one another. Hugh let out a quiet sigh and rested his head on Stephen's shoulder.  
  
'This is kind of nice, really.'  
  
'It is.'  
  
Hugh lifted his head and touched his lips to Stephen's. Their kiss was soft and slow, so very different than their normal lusty tongue fucks. Stephen licked Hugh's lips and then leisurely dipped his tongue inside. There was no struggle for dominance or urgency. Hugh simply surrendered his mouth over to Stephen. All the while, Stephen slipped his free hand underneath Hugh's t-shirt.    
  
Stephen pulled back from the kiss and whispered, 'Strip.'  
  
Hugh didn't counter the request with a tart comment. Tart comments never were his thing. Even so, he didn't question or in any way make a joke about the request. He simply kissed Stephen once more before he stood. He started with his belt and one by one dropped every article of clothing onto the floor.  
  
Stephen remained on the couch, smiling and admiring Hugh's body. He couldn't understand why Hugh didn't find himself to be the most strikingly handsome and all around gorgeous man on the planet. Slender and athletic with eyes one could lose themselves in, it's a wonder he didn't have to fight admirers away with a stick. Sure, he had his imperfections, but Stephen reveled in those as well. Not to mention the fact that he was the funniest person Stephen had ever met.  
  
At the same moment, Hugh was wondering why Stephen didn't realise how attractive and utterly sexy he was. With his kind eyes, soft lips, and deceptively innocent face, Hugh had never met anyone who had made him feel the way that Stephen did. He adored everything about him from his nose to his toes. He loved to rub Stephen's tummy every chance he could. He didn't mind Stephen's short comings in the slightest because they fit together so perfectly. And, above all else, Stephen made him laugh when no one else could.  
  
Stephen placed his hands on Hugh's hips. Hugh bent down and kissed him.  
  
When they parted, Stephen licked his lips and said, 'Lie down on the rug. I have something for you.'  
  
Hugh nodded, wondering what Stephen was up to, but quietly sprawled himself out on the bear skin rug. As much as it pained him to leave the vision of the firelight dancing on Hugh's naked, shivering thighs, Stephen retreated to the bedroom for a quick moment. He returned with a small bag which Hugh eyed suspiciously.  
  
'Onto your stomach, please, darling.'  
  
Once Hugh had flipped himself over, Stephen removed his own shirt and trousers, leaving him with nothing but his boxers. He riffled through the small bag until he found the red bottle he had been searching for. He squirted a handful of its strawberry scented contents into his palm, before rubbing his hands together. Hugh gasped as the cold gel on Stephen's hands touched his back. The gasp soon turned into a sigh and a quiet moan as Stephen began working his hands over Hugh's muscles. He did this until he had worked his way over every inch of exposed skin and Hugh felt a bit like a jelly. Hugh let out a series of happy murmurs. Stephen licked a trail down Hugh's spine as Hugh held his breath in anticipation. However, Stephen stopped completely at the base of his spine, causing Hugh to make a sad whimper.    
  
'Not so fast, my little buttercup, we have the entire night ahead of us. The entire week, in fact.'  
  
Stephen ran his hand over Hugh's buttocks, using his fingers to exert just enough pressure in between them for emphasis but without actual penetration. Hugh raised his hips up to meet Stephen's hand, in the hopes of encouraging him. But, Stephen had already withdrew his hand and was enjoying the aching expression on Hugh's face.  
  
'Roll over.'  
  
Hugh settled himself onto his back again, glaring at Stephen with barely contained anticipation. Hugh was starting to breathe more heavily, his neck flushing pink, and he was half hard. It was taking nearly all of his will power for him to not touch himself. He knew, or at the very least assumed, that Stephen had some sort of a plan.   
  
Stephen reapplied the gel to his hands and began to work over Hugh's front in a similar manner as his back. Only this time, he moved his hands more slowly and avoided Hugh's most delicate of areas. Hugh closed his eyes and a smile crossed his lips as he enjoyed every touch of Stephen's hands. When most of Hugh's bits were sufficiently slick and strawberry flavoured, Stephen grasped Hugh's cock almost too roughly. Hugh gasped. Stephen began jerking him off fast and hard. Hugh moaned loudly and thrashed his legs. Within moments, his toes were curling and he was holding his breath because he was nearly at the brink of release. Heat was running up his spine and he could feel it ... any second now.  Just before he fell over the edge, Stephen stopped ... withdrawing his hand completely. With a whimper of desperation, and panting so hard he felt as if he might hyperventilate, Hugh's eyes flew open. He grabbed first at Stephen's wrist, but then immediately let go with the intent of finishing the job himself. Stephen was much faster and quickly pinned Hugh's hands to the rug. Hugh's voice was barely a squeak and his face was displaying so many varied emotions at once.  
  
'Whaaaa ...?'  
  
Stephen's breathing was nearly as heavy.  
  
'Do you trust me?'  
  
Hugh vigorously nodded, though he was still trying to free himself.  
  
'Then, when I let go, don't touch yourself. Your cock is mine tonight. Do you understand?'  
  
Another quick nod.  
  
'Good boy.'  
  
Stephen let go of Hugh's hands. Neither of them moved apart from a slight uncomfortable squirm on Hugh's part. Stephen waited patiently for Hugh's dick to lessen in colour and lean a bit too far over to the right. Stephen lent forward, licking the tip before blowing across it. Hugh shivered and bit his bottom lip as his eyes slid closed again. Stephen began stroking him, infinitely slower this time. It took longer, but Hugh's moans began to get deeper, his legs started to shake harder, and his toes returned to their curled position. And, just as before, when he could feel that familiar twitching, Stephen stopped. This time, however, Hugh didn't move his hands. After the third time, Hugh stopped minding the stopping and was only anticipating the starting. After the fourth time, he stopped thinking all together. After the fifth time, he started with the blissed out giggling.   
  
Hugh's giggling nearly subsided when he realised that there was to be no sixth time. He could barely open his eyes and was smiling so hard that he looked high. Stephen removed his camera from the bag, snapping a photograph of his sweat drenched lover. He knew he would always want to remember what Hugh looked like on the night he had brought his beloved to the nearly mythical feat of multiple orgasms without a single ejaculatory mishap. In fact, Stephen would later feel so proud of himself that the photo, much to Hugh's chagrin, would take the fourth photo slot in his wallet.  
  
Once his camera was safely tucked away, Stephen slid off his boxers and positioned himself between Hugh's legs. He used the strawberry gel to slick both himself and his intended target before he lent forward to kiss Hugh deeply.  
  
'How do you want it?'  
  
'Hmmmm ...?'  
  
'I could fuck you slowly, perhaps even fingering you first. I could follow that with long, slow strokes. However, I doubt very much you'll last beyond my sticking a single digit up your pimhole. Then, I'll be left to screw you while you fall asleep. On the other hand, I could fuck you so hard that I'll be done almost as quickly as you. The down side to that is it'll probably hurt like an absolute bitch when you deposit my defilement into the toilet later. The choice is yours, my little hotcake.'  
  
'... fast.'  
  
Stephen kissed Hugh as he reached his hand down between them to insure that they were lined up properly. He shoved himself forward and up into Hugh with a well practiced thrust. Just as predicted, Hugh came, moaning into Stephen's mouth. He came so violently strong that it wasn't a moment later before Stephen joined him. Hugh remained motionless, unable to move. Stephen rolled off of him. At first, he lay on his back, but the wooden floor was too cold on his naked bum. He, then, moved onto his side, snuggling against Hugh so he could share the rug.  
  
They both were a mess. Stephen didn't care and Hugh hadn't yet regained enough mental capacity to care. Stephen ran his fingers through Hugh's hair, along his face, down his neck, down his chest, down his stomach, and finally came to rest, almost possessively, on Hugh's tired and shagged out willie. It was still warm and very much sticky. Stephen captured Hugh's lips, but Hugh had already fallen asleep. Stephen placed his head on Hugh's shoulder and wondered how Hugh was going to exact his revenge. Maybe their excursion into nature wouldn't be so bad after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written September 2005)


	26. Quick Sketch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bits of Silliness: 1982-1994

Stephen and Hugh stand on an empty stage. Stephen fidgets while Hugh looks a bit wide-eyed and stupid.  


  


Stephen: Does it bother you that I think of you as a woman?  
  
Hugh: It doesn't bother me so much as I find it odd ... since, you know, you like men and all. And, I am clearly not a woman.  
  
Stephen: No, but you are lovely and women are also very lovely.  
  
Hugh: Yes they are.  
  
Stephen: What I mean to say is that I think of you as a woman in that classic, chauvinistic sense where I feel the need to take care of you ... shield you from the world ...  
  
Hugh: Club me over the head and drag me off by my hair?  
  
Stephen: Yes, sometimes that too. Is that so wrong?  
  
Hugh: I'd rather you didn't club me.   
  
Stephen: No?  
  
Hugh: No.  
  
Stephen: What would you suggest I do instead?  
  
Hugh: Oh, I don't know. You - you could, erm, nibble my toes, or - or fondle my bottom.  
  
Stephen: You want me to fondle your bottom?  
  
Hugh: Mmm-hmmm.  
  
Stephen: Right now, in front of the viewing several?  
  
Hugh: Yes, right now.  
  
Stephen: I think you've completely lost your mind, but if you insist .... Bend over.  
  
_Hugh bends over, smiling. Stephen hits him over the head with a cricket bat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written September 2005)


	27. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scribblings and Half-Truths  
> 1978-1981

The beginning of our relationship, I regret to say, is a difficult moment in which to pin point exactly. I could tell you all about the day in which Emma first introduced us. However, I fear my recounting of that tale would bore you to absolute tears. Hugh's version of the story is far more interesting as he had been in an exceptionally lugubrious mood prior to our meeting. I could tell you about our drunken and clumsy first fumblings that took place during  _and_  after a party. In truth, not much happened that I'm sure you don't already know about or could very well guess. Our first kiss, that wasn't influenced in any way by various combinations of questionable substances at great quantity, happened on a snowy day between classes. It lasted half of a second because Hugh's cold caused us to break apart.  
  
You see, my point is that while all of those were special moments, they don't exactly signify anything other than a friendship gradually turning into something more substantial. I'm not completely sure what I'm being asked to write about. I thought perhaps we had already spoke enough about our private lives to satisfy the reading several. Yet, somehow I find that we've been obligated to write more pieces of prose on the topic of our relationship. Hugh won't be pleased in the slightest, but I'm not writing all of these by myself. It would be nice if we were getting compensated in some fashion apart from the £7.50 each our slave driver, er, I mean publisher coughs up for lunch every day she forces us to recount the sordid details of our collective sordidness.    
  
What was this about again? You've made me forget. Ah, yes, beginnings. How does one exactly define the beginning? When did it change from being friends to being friends  _and_  lovers? I might as well tell you that the first time I sucked him off was in one of those Pay-Az-U-Krapp public lavs. By that thought, I could tell you about the first time he succeeded at the fine art of fellatio ... which was very much not the first time he had my cock in his mouth. Hugh, bless him, couldn't give a proper blow job to save his life. Don't let anyone ... _anyone_... tell you otherwise. They don't know what they're talking about as they've never had his mouth wrapped around their dicks .... or I hope not ... at least not all at the same time. Hugh's much better suited to telling that story as, I'm sure, he can remember it more clearly than I. Perhaps I should drag him over to the computer for that.

 

* * *

 

 

I can't believe I got talked into this. I mean, really. It's just, erm ... that first blow job. Seriously?! Out of all the, you know, things he could have picked to represent the beginning. Beginning of what, exactly? My telling the world that I'm horrid in the sack? Christ.    
  
Well, the first time ... the very first time was in a pay toilet. Yes, that's a lovely stroll down memory lane if there ever was one. I don't remember all that much about it. I remember my head clunking against the wall and my pulling his hair. He hates when I do that. He's one to talk, having a damn sight more hair than I do. I remember that I had my eyes closed for most of it, because I do recall looking down at him just as I was about to shoot it in his mouth. We just sort of locked eyes, you know, in a bit of a warped romantic moment. After he swallowed, he stood, and captured my mouth before I had the chance to escape. I could taste myself on his lips, in his mouth. .. somewhat bitter, but mostly odd ... not a flavour you're likely to ever forget. There's a dirty thrill in the perverseness of it that tingled up my spine that day just as it's doing now to think about it. Even then, I knew, deep down, that it wouldn't be the last time that the flavour would cross my lips.   
  
Stephen liked to tell me that practice makes perfect. I certainly did more than my fair share of practicing until I was able to, um, you know. Well, maybe I should just jump right into it.  
  
I looked up at him. He was sitting there, eyes closed, cigarette alternating between hand and mouth, almost completely clothed, other hand on the back of my head .... My eyes were starting to water and my jaw hurt fiercely. It hurt ten times worse than the time Edgar Diggerton accidentally hit me in the face with a rowing oar. My stomach hurt from gagging so many times. Also, to be completely honest, I was still a bit revolted at the basic concept and knowledge of what was going to happen if I was successful. But, I wanted to do this. I needed to do this. Not only needed in the sexual gratification sense, but because I'd been a failure in my previous attempts.  
  
Stephen was the first, last, and only boy ... man ... I'd ever been with, really. Thanks to public education, he wasn't the second, third, or even sixth boy to ever touch me. But, I had thankfully survived those years with most of my virtue in tact. I never had sex, not, you know,  _real_  sex, with any of those boys ... and more to the current point, I had never given a blow job. It was never a skill that I'd ever imagined that I would one day need.    
  
Stephen was patient with me. He cared about me ... didn't want to rush me into anything. The first time, I couldn't do it at all. The following two or three times, I made such a mess of it that he stopped me. He said that I needed to stop using my teeth ... which I find odd since I like it when I feel  _his_  teeth. I would gag and gasp and take so many breaks that it would always end with him jerking himself off while we kissed.    
  
Up to this point, we hadn't had sex, made love, fucked, or any other term you'd care to describe getting it up the back passage. We had touched and fondled, rubbed, wanked, licked, humped, and nearly everything else except for the main event. I just told you about the first time he blew me ... he wore his scarf that day. The first time we were naked together, he licked my back and gave me my first rim job.   
  
When he came in my mouth this time, the first time, I retched and spit it partially onto the floor and partially onto the leg of my trousers. The first time we had sex was an even more awkward and weird situation. One that I don't care to go into at the moment.

 

* * *

 

  
  
'Awkward and weird' is a bit of an understatement. 'Damn bloody disaster' would be a more apt phrase, I should think. Hugh's glaring at me whilst I type, so I think I'd better save that story for later. Besides, by the time we had sex and definitely by the time we had made love, as it were, we had well gone past the beginnings of the more-than-friendly side of our relationship.    
  
Ah, well, I can see by the clock on the screen that it's nearly lunch time. Since we're not getting paid for this, you, dear reader, can kindly bugger off until next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written October 2005)


	28. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 2003-2005

It started with a kiss. I thought it was innocent enough. He was always rather silly and flirted perhaps a bit more than he should. I suppose I took it as sort of a dare. Something in the back of my mind sent up red flags when he kissed me in return. In hindsight, I should have gently pushed him away, breaking that kiss as soon as I knew it wasn't as innocent as I had previously suspected. Instead, it grieves me to say, I deepened it. His mouth had a minty flavour to it that only compelled me to linger much too long. I missed sweets tinged kisses. I missed them so much that I took him home with me that night.  
  
A part of me, the sensible part, was still very much hesitant to touch him. We talked about random topics while drinking more than our fair share of wine. When his questions veered in a personal direction, I would steer the conversation into another direction or, as the night progressed, I would kiss him. Kissing seemed to be a delightful and effective way of distracting him. His youthful enthusiasm eventually lead us to the bedroom.  
  
I made sure the room was much too dark to see him or anything else. I didn't want to look at his angelic face as he put his surprisingly experienced mouth to good use. The only sounds in the room came from his slurping and my occasional sharp intake of breath. We committed our sin in relative silence. I wrapped my fingers into his hair as he quickened his pace.  
  
'Ugh ... Hugh ...', I gasped.  
  
He didn't pause, only hummed an acknowledgment that I had said something. I doubt he even took notice to what I had said, but the sound of him shattered my illusion.  
  
'Stop.'  
  
He didn't stop or even slow down. I knew if I didn't dislodge him quickly, my body would betray me. I tugged his head back by his hair until he let go.  
  
'Ow. What'd you do that for?'  
  
'I - I'm sorry, but I think you should leave.'  
  
'But, I haven't even finished.'  
  
'I know. I know. I'm sorry. This is just .... We can't do this. It's wrong.'  
  
'But, I thought -'  
  
I sighed.  
  
'It was a mistake, Alan. I never should have brought you here. Please go. Or - or you can stay in the guest room until morning if you'd rather.'  
  
Without another word, he left. As I heard the front door shut, I hoped that I hadn't ruined our professional relationship. I didn't dwell on the future of some blasted quiz show when there were far more dire and important matters to attend to. My guilt, which is a feeling I'm not often accustomed to, was becoming all consuming.    
  
I fumbled in the darkness for the mobile.  
  
His telephone rang so many times that I was sure the answer phone would pick up at any moment. Finally, it was answered by a voice I didn't recognise. I thought perhaps I had the wrong number, not considering the fact I had phoned him with the speed dial preset. The stranger's voice caused me to blank for a moment. He repeated himself.  
  
'Hello?'  
  
'Erm... Is - is Hugh ... there?"  
  
'Yeah. Hang on. He's just getting his clothes on.'  
  
Slightly muffled, I could hear the voice yell, 'Hugh! Phone!'  
  
After a brief, muffled conversation that I couldn't discern and some rustling, I was greeted with the voice I so needed to hear.  
  
'Hullo?'  
  
'It's so good to hear your voice. What did that mysterious American mean that you were getting your clothes on?'  
  
'He didn't mean it like  _that_. I just got home maybe ten minutes ago and was changing out of the reeking and wrinkled clothes I'd been wearing on set all day. Wouldn't want me to go round looking like a complete fashion disaster ... would you?'  
  
'No.'  
  
'You sound odd. Is something wrong? It's got to be well past midnight there.'  
  
'Yes ... er ... no, there's nothing wrong. I was just thinking about you. Did I ring you at a bad time?'  
  
'No, no, Robert's just over to, erm, hang out ... I guess. They sent us home early because the whole studio lost power. Something about a squirrel falling into a power grid or some such. I don't know. So, I invited him over for beer, pizza, and movies.'  
  
'Well, you certainly are adapting to your surroundings.'  
  
'I try.'  
  
'I noticed. I miss you.'  
  
'I miss you too. Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to go. Robert's already half way to the elevator by now.'  
  
'I thought you were planning a night of drink and film.'  
  
'We are, but we have to go rent a movie first. I only popped in for a moment to change.'  
  
'Listen to you. You're turning American.'  
  
'No, I'm not. Seriously, Stephen, I need to go.'  
  
'I love you.'  
  
'Oh.'  
  
'I do. I know I don't say it nearly enough.'  
  
'I know you do.'  
  
In the background, I could hear, 'Come on!' ... followed by something that sounded like a half-giggle from Hugh.  
  
'I'll call you soon. Bye.'  
  
'... bye.'  
  
I stared up into the darkness, trying not to let my imagination get the better of me. I'm positive he was having an innocent night of it with a friend. It's good that he's making friends. I'm happy for him. On the other hand, it would serve me right if he'd taken a lover or ten. He was living in West Hollywood, after all. He's attractive, charming, funny, famous, and I'm sure the accent helps. Why would he even think twice about my wobbly arse when he could have his pick of beautiful people? Most especially when I had nearly cheated on him only moments ago. I wasn't helping myself feel better in the slightest. I didn't like feeling inadequate and full of doubt, but those were ever-present feelings that might as well be old unwelcome friends at this point. However, they were coupled with loneliness and the hammering guilt that was only increasing by the moment. I was also more than a little drunk. My eyes were starting to sting at the unfairness of it all. Unfairness of what exactly? Everything. If you've ever been in such a mental state, you know exactly what I mean. There's no logic to it and there's no sense wasting time in trying to sort it all out. I just simply felt miserable, alone, and unloved. I felt ridiculous as warm tears started falling onto the teddy bear he had given me one day "just because" ... but I think I'm entitled to feel ridiculous now and again.  
  
I slept well into the afternoon, which is something that I almost never do. After I had a pee, I glanced at myself in the mirror. I had fallen asleep in the clothes I had worn, my eyes were puffy and pink, and my hair was standing straight up on one side. I only grumbled slightly at my reflection before I padded out to find some comfort via the warm glow of the computer. As I was sitting there, deleting the endless spam from my inbox, a new e-mail arrived from Hugh. A quick mental time zone calculation said that he was getting ready for work. They must've gotten the fried squirrel out of whatever the poor unfortunate soul had fallen into.   
  
_sorry about cutting you off last night. i feel bad about that. robert's a nice guy, i think you'll like him. pizza was good. movie sucked. yes, terribly american thing of me to say, i know. i wish i'd remembered to bring the list of dvds you recommended. regardless, it still would've been so much better had you been here. i could imagine the glare you'd have given him when he dropped pizza onto the carpet. after he passed out for the night, i could've fallen asleep in your arms instead of alone in this cold, empty bed. i hope you can visit soon. i miss you so much. i think about you always. i love you.  
xoxo - squeakie_

As I clicked "reply", I decided that not only was today going to be much better than yesterday, but that I was going to have to schedule a visit to LA very soon. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written October 2015)


	29. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 1982-1994

Hugh's head rested against my shoulder, his nose brushing against my neck. My right hand was on his lower back. My left hand was holding his right hand ... his left had found a home somewhere in the vicinity of his head. Aside from hand placement, I didn't pay very much attention to the specifics of how we came to be slowly dancing in the lounge. It involved a combination of too much wine and one of Hugh's Sinatra albums. My cheek rested against his head, our eyes shut, as we moved against one another. It was more of a walk than a dance, really. Neither of us are particularly graceful, but one need not be a good dancer to participate in a simple dance of love.  
  
When the album had finished, we stopped. I placed my fingers under Hugh's chin, lifting his face up for a single, soft kiss. That night, I made love to him ... with him. My every touch was gentle, apologetic. I took care to only lightly kiss the purple and yellow bruise which marred his left cheek.   
  
I had accidentally damaged my darling's beautiful face.  
  
  
  
I helped him to his feet, asking several times if he was ok. It was the only thing I could think to do since I had to fight my natural impulse to kiss and console him. He clutched at his face, nodding,  but seemed out of sorts. The moment we were backstage, away from the prying eyes of the viewing several, I hugged him and apologised endlessly.    
  
He mumbled, 's'ok.'  
  
Various crew members b'damned, I kissed him in front of all of them. It wasn't like they didn't already know.    
  
With a look of total disapproval and perhaps even disgust, the studio nurse arrived to give him the once over. It was only her arrival that caused me to detach my lips from his. Under normal circumstances, I would have thrilled at the chance to make a completely vulgar statement in response to her expression regarding us. However, I was far too distracted to even think of such things. Besides, under normal circumstances, I would be more discreet as to who was witness to our kiss. She poked at his face rather sharply, with one chubby, gloved finger. He made quiet, pained grunts at every touch. She asked him if he felt dizzy and had him follow her finger with his eyes. A bit extreme it seemed, but I'm sure the Beeb wanted to cover their arses before telling him to get back to work. Once finished, much to my surprise, she turned to me.  
  
'He'll have some swelling and bruising, but nothing serious. Make sure he puts ice on it and has a bit of a lie down. He should be able to finish the show once he's rested. Swing by the chemist on his- _your_ way home if he needs something for the pain.'  
  
He didn't say much for the remainder of the day. We followed her instructions, finished the show, and then went straight to our flat. He didn't want to eat anything, only drink wine and curl against me. He didn't take anything apart from a couple of tablets the nurse had given him. He chose to drink it away. He had a high tolerance for pain and I didn't press the issue.  
  
In the bedroom, every touch was soft. There was no cursing, hair pulling, or thrashing about. There was but only quiet murmurs, hair tousling, and quivering thighs. I worked him over slowly. I'm not sure how long we were at it, but it felt like it could have easily been hours. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I was too gentle for him, when he finally came with a sigh. He smiled and stretched slightly. He was so content that he looked as though he might purr at any moment. I watched him as he drifted bibulously to sleep.   
  
Before I left his side, to go take care of myself while relaxing in the bath, I brushed my fingers across the bruise. Still only half asleep, he winced at my touch. The bruise, in its stark contrast in colour against his cheek, seemed to act as a physical representation of the tragic beauty of his pain and sadness. It pained me that I had caused it, but I could never find anything unattractive about my beloved ... at least nothing physical. Some of his clothing choices were another matter all together.  
  
I couldn't help but think of the purple blotch as a metaphor for the dysfunctional dance that was both our relationship and our lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written October 2005)


	30. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-Truths Of The Libidinous Liar  
> 2003-2005

 

I knew exactly why Hugh was in London. He can go on and on all he likes about "just popping in for a bit". You see, one "just pops in" on someone no further than an hour or two away. Traveling half way round the world takes a bit more effort than popping in. Regardless of his motives, I was thrilled he was here. Of course, I do very much enjoy the rare occasions that he becomes jealous and possessive of yours truly. I only enjoy them because these fleeting moments are just that, fleeting. Every once in a great while something will put the idea into his head that I might be tempted to look elsewhere. I truthfully don't know where in the world he'd get such an idea ... except for perhaps the fact that I planted it there. Part of me expected a sudden flurry of "I love you" telephone calls and perhaps flowers and chocolates to arrive at my door every day for a week. But another part of me, the more realistic part, expected to never hear from him again. Imagine my surprise when he rang, saying that he was about to step onto an aeroplane ... asking if I could meet him at the airport when he landed. I had several things to do that day, including an interview at nearly the time I was supposed to be meeting him. In my mind, I had everything scheduled out, but truthfully I'd have cancelled anything that would have kept me away from him.  
  
The poor dear looked exhausted as he ... well, _flopped_ is the only word I can think to describe it ... as he flopped into the passenger's seat. I told him as much, as I resisted every urge in my body to kiss him. He said something or other about not being able to sleep these past few days. I did notice that he hadn't brought a single thing with him, but didn't want to inquire as to why he'd left in such a manner. I knew. I might have felt a bit guilty, if such were in my nature to do so, but he was in my car ... I was happy. He slipped his passport down beside his seat, mumbled something about my driving, and was soon asleep.    
  
I took him to the flat ... our flat ... the aptly dubbed "love nest" that we've kept almost for the entire duration of our relationship. Once we had moved out of that horridly over crowded house that we had shared with five or six other boys, we moved into this place. I eventually bought it after I fell arse backwards into money and went on quite the obscene spending spree. It's a bit embarrassing to think of how many cars and watches I wasted my money on. That's not to even mention the eventual home buying spree I would later go on. We always kept this flat because no matter where we were in our lives, we always knew that we had a place which was ours. If he were to leave me, I wouldn't be able to rid myself of this place. I imagine I would lock it up and keep it forever to prove that someone once loved me. I also imagine that I'd eventually go back into the flat in order to take a nap that I'd never wake from. But, I don't like to dwell on that scenario for too long.  
  
The flat really isn't much by any standards. You have to remember the circumstances of how it was originally acquired and our paltry incomes at that time. I highly doubt anyone could look at photographs of it and suspect that we own it. There are a few subtle hints such as the exceedingly scandalous photograph of us hanging on the bedroom wall. Thank Christ for the invention of photo printers for your home computer. I'll never forget the look on Hugh's face when I showed him my digital camera. I'll never forget because the photo of that moment rests in one of the shoe boxes under the bed. If the boxes make him so nervous, I'd hate to think of how he'd react if he ever started poking about in my computer's files.  
  
It was a bit of a struggle getting him inside. Once I'd opened the door, he made as if he were aiming for the sofa. I put my arm round his waist and steered him into the bedroom. Aside from his usual comment about the "blasted beaded curtain", I think he was very nearly sleep walking. I know almost the moment his head touched the pillow, he was out. I hoisted off most of his clothing, depositing them less than neatly onto the floor. I stripped down to my underpants and t-shirt, that shirt being an obnoxiously luminescent yellow one a fan had given me for my birthday, and slid in beside him. He draped his arm across me as he lifted his head slightly, pressing his lips to mine. There is something absolutely intoxicating about kissing the one you love after you've been apart for far too long. The kiss soon became deep and passionate, as if we needed to kiss even more than breathe. Sometimes in my flights of fantasy, I believe that very thing to be true. It lasted until he groaned quietly and pulled away. He rested his head on my shoulder, nuzzling against me for a moment, before he was once again asleep. I couldn't help but wonder if this was to be the last time we'd share a bed. I listened to him breathe until I joined him in his slumber.    
  
I'm not sure how long we were asleep, but it can't have been for very long. Hugh was still whiffling lightly beside me when I woke. He had, by that time, moved his head onto his own pillow. His leg, however, had firmly wedged itself between mine. He looked so very peaceful, smiling in his sleep, without a care in the world at that very moment. I ran my fingers through his hair and round his ear, thinking about how when we were like this, there really were no cares in the world ... the world didn't exist outside of these four walls. There was nothing in the entire universe apart from this. I wish I could go back and erase the past month and a half from existence.   
  
I lay there for some time, watching him sleep. Somehow over the years my darling boy had grown into a handsome man. Truthfully, I find him more attractive now than ever. What I mean to say is that I've always been attracted to him, but if I had my choice in the matter, I'd choose for him to look just the way he does at the present time. I've always had a thing for the youthful, boyish types ... but for the first time I can imagine I'm dating an older man. I'm never more than twenty five in my own mind, you see. He could be some rich actor, come to sweep me off my feet and rescue me from a life of poverty and prostitution. Sorry. Even sitting here a week later at the computer, snacking on Orangina and chocolate Hob Nobs, I get carried away thinking about how absolutely gorgeous he is while sleeping. He's attractive all of the time, but doubly so while he's asleep ... leaving me to construct fantasies.  
  
The thing about Hugh is that no matter how his outward appearance may change, he's still the same inside. He'll always be the slightly awkward, lugubrious, insecure, sweet, and wonderful boy I have always loved.    
  
Feeling in a horribly romantic mood, I decided to wake Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. I locked my lips to his, gently at first. The gentleness of the kiss only lasted as long as it took him to wake up and respond. As best I could tell from my position, his eyes remained closed as his mouth became open and accepting. It was only a moment later that he had hooked his hands under my arms and pulled me on top of him. After which, he broke the kiss and hugged me tightly.  
  
'I never want to let you go.'  
  
'I know.'  
  
He moved his arms up to latch his fingers into my hair. He opened his eyes and gave me one of those deep, intense stares as if he's looking into one's very soul.  
  
'I mean it, Stephen. I don't want to lose you.'  
  
'You're not going to lose me, dearest.'  
  
'I ... I don't know what I'd do without you.'  
  
'You're much stronger than you give yourself credit for, I'm sure you would manage. However, we won't ever have to find out. I wish you wouldn't worry, petal.'  
  
I kissed his nose, then his lips.  
  
'Ok?'  
  
He nodded, but I could see a sadness lingering in his eyes .... more than usual, that is. I kissed at his neck, taking delight in the rare treat of feeling such heavy stubble rasping against my cheek.  
  
I kissed his ear as I whispered, ' _Je t'aime_.'  
  
He made a quiet choke sob deep in his throat. I shushed him with kisses. I could never get enough of his mouth. In fact, I believe my tongue would prefer to take up residence in his mouth and never leave.   
  
He pulled my shirt off over my head, then attached his lips to my neck. I couldn't help but groan and push my hips down against his. His hands roamed my back while his mouth remained suctioned to the same spot. I moved my head, detaching him, before I bit the top of his ear. He breathed out something that resembled "yes", so I bit him harder.    
  
I'm not a particular fan of pain. In fact, nothing kills the mood for me more quickly than the notion of hurting him. I think love making should be gentle. He, on the other hand, likes it rough. I suspect there's some deep seeded psychological thingamajig at work, but he likes it. We've somehow managed to come to a compromise in the bedroom. He'll surprise me with flowers and gifts, followed by kisses, touches, and whatever I'd like. I've gotten over my fear of and distaste towards hurting him to the point of actually suggesting or initiating activities which I think he might get off on. I take great pleasure in pleasing him.    
  
I think one of the most traumatic of these little experiments happened several years ago. Just the actual act seems very tame in comparison to some of the things we've tried, but I feel a bit uneasy thinking about it to this day. Out of the blue one day, I suppose it's been nearly fifteen years ago now, he asked me rather matter of factly to spank him while he masturbated. I was reluctant, but, as I said, it didn't seem bad by comparison to some of the things that fell out of the darker corners of his imagination ... most of which didn't go any further than suggestions, I might add.    
  
It started out, I hesitate to use the word "normally", but ... well, normally enough. He dropped his trousers while leaning over the back of the sofa ... one hand on his cock, the other gripping at the sofa in anticipation. I stood beside him, giving a cursory slap to his arse. He told me to do it harder, over and over until his skin began to turn and remain a deep shade of pink. I should've stopped then, but the sounds of his grunting only encouraged me. Then, he started crying. The moment that I realised tears were pouring down his face, I stopped.   
  
In response, he pleaded, 'Don't stop ... fuck .... Please don't stop ... please ...'  
  
I couldn't deny him anything if he begged for it. It was breaking my heart to look at him, so I cast my glance to the wall opposite as I fulfiled his wish. He came, hard, down the back of the sofa. I caught him as his knees buckled. His body felt so limp in my arms. He started kissing me, those deep, porno kisses. I could taste his tears in my mouth and it made me ill. I've tasted his tears on many occasions, but none of those times had been because I'd physically hurt him ... at least not on purpose. I have accidentally bruised or banged him about on several occasions. Some years later, I would taste them when we broke up for a brief period, but even that wasn't nauseating like this. I left him standing in the lounge while I went to get sick in the toilet. I spent the rest of the night in the bedroom. I hated myself for hurting him, hated him for making me do it, and hated myself again for hating him.  
  
Some time during the night, I woke to find myself still alone in the bed. I sat up and lit a cigarette, deciding that as soon as I finished, I'd go make amends. I didn't get the chance because a moment later, he was standing just outside the doorway. We looked at each other for what seemed like forever, before he finally entered. He curled up beside me, almost into a little ball, with his arms wrapped round my waist and his head against my stomach. I rubbed his arm, then ran my fingers through his hair.  
  
He whispered, 'I'm sorry.'  
  
After that night, he insisted that I tell him if I was uncomfortable doing something and to not go along even if he pleaded. I agreed, but he knows that my every reservation can be broken with a "please".    
  
Heavens, I do get side tracked so easily. Back to me biting his ear. When I bit it the second time, his hands found their way to my hips and he ground himself up against me, hard. I trailed sloppy kisses down his chest and stomach, covering every inch of it that I could. I soon made short work of his undies. I noticed the faded remnants of something that resembled a bruise near his hip. I ran my finger across it.  
  
'What's this?'  
  
'I ... erm ... banged into a desk corner.'  
  
'You should be more careful.'  
  
Unfortunately, his fingers twisted themselves into my hair.   
  
When you've been lovers for as long as we have, and if you love and pay attention to your partner, you learn everything there is to know about them. You could order their meals for them, if need be. You can have conversations without saying a word. You know where every scar they possess, both physical and mental, came from. You know their favourite songs, their favourite colours, their favourite places for you to touch them. Hugh shivers if I run my finger up the back of his arm, for example. And, perhaps one of the most important pieces of information you acquire is how they like their blow job. Unless, of course, you're as inept in that field as m'colleague, then you have to adapt. I no longer remember if I had a particular preference, because I love the way he does it. I love the way he looks up at me. I love the sigh he heaves when he gets frustrated and gives up. I love the way he never quite knows where to put his hands. I especially love the look of victory he gets when he actually gets the job done. To his credit, he gives an excellent hand job. Public school education at its finest.  
  
As for Hugh ... well, let's just say that I could write an instruction manual on how to fellate him. There's a way to do it if you want him to come very fast, a way that can drag on for an hour or more, and various lengths in between. I know where he likes my hands and fingers to be, and where he likes to be kissed, licked, and/or bitten. I'm, of course, not going to tell you how to do it. For all I know you could be a member of the Hollywood Whorage, and I'd like to have at least one advantage over you. On this particular evening, I chose to go at a leisurely pace that took aprox. twenty minutes. Since I went slowly for most of it, there was very little thrashing and hair pulling on his part until the end. I think perhaps that this was the very first time that I  _didn't_  hate it when he pulled my hair.  
  
I lay beside him, watching as he breathed heavily, practically glowing in his post-orgasmic high. He looked over at me and smiled. It was a beautiful smile, and yet, it didn't quite reach his eyes.   
  
'What's wrong?'  
  
'I - It's nothing.'  
  
'I do wish you'd tell me. Is it beca -'  
  
'It's nothing. Honestly, Stephen. You know me ... perpetual black cloud.'   
  
I knew he was lying ...  _it_  was something. The thing about it is that I knew what that something was. He knew I knew, he just didn't want to discuss it. That was Hugh for you, always skirting round the issues and bottling his troubles until they overwhelm him.    
  
He bit his lower lip, as he gently placed his hand on my thigh. A question was burning in his eyes which I hesitated to answer. He slid his hand further up my leg. Before he had the chance to do anything, I caught him by the wrist and removed his hand.    
  
'Don't.'  
  
I wanted to deposit his hand onto the bed, but I allowed him to interlace his fingers with mine since he seemed desperate for contact. He asked "why?" without actually uttering the word.  
  
'Sweetness, you don't have to do that.'  
  
His eyebrows moved slightly, as his eyes glanced to the side.  
  
'I don't deserve anything you could give me. I don't deserve you even being here.'  
  
He locked his eyes with mine, frowning slightly. I returned his frown with a sad, half smile before turning my head away. He sighed, then moved himself into my line of vision. He only looked at me with a forlorn expression. It was the same expression that I had seen on those long nights when the darkness inside would become too much for him. It was an expression that always accompanied tears ... except this time. It worried me that he wasn't crying. This was so unlike him to be sad, to be hurt, perhaps even crushed, certainly betrayed, without expressing his feelings with tears. He often likes to say that he's only happy when he's sad, but I don't believe that for a moment. He didn't even cry when I had confessed over the telephone. His only response was silence, followed by a few quiet words. I closed my eyes.  
  
'I thought about cleaning out the medicine chest when you told me, but then I thought about the kids ..... though everyone would probably have a better life without me.'  
  
'Don't say things like that.'  
  
He sighed again, letting his head drop to my shoulder. I thought that this was going to be it, but as quickly as he'd let some of it out, he hid it away again.  
  
'I'm hungry.'  
  
We were silent for a long moment. I needed a few minutes to catch up with him switching emotional tracks. Our fingers were still laced, so I squeezed his hand slightly.   
  
'Can I take you out?'  
  
He made sort of a snorting noise.  
  
'You mean on a date?'  
  
'We haven't been on one in a very long time. Please.'  
  
'I'd like that.'  
  
'I'll go run you a bath. Unless - unless you'd fancy a shower?'  
  
'No, a bath's good. You always make the water smell so nice. Besides, I'm showered out ... no tub at hom - er, I mean, in the apartment.'  
  
'I remember ... how dreadful. I'll be back when I have the water smelling nice for you.'   
  
Off I went, like a good wife, to prep the tub while he lay there, tangled in the sheets.  
  
I think the very first thing I did after purchasing the flat was to have white carpet put in the lounge, hallway, and bedroom. In hindsight, that was a mistake. The second or third thing I had done was have the tub replaced. I had the old one taken out, the floor re-tiled, and a new one installed. The new one was an extra large claw foot tub. I also had a new shower line installed since Hugh was going through his showering together faze that I still don't quite understand. I mean, fooling around in the shower is one thing, but trying to get clean while sharing is another matter entirely. The problem with the tub is that I had ordered it from a catalogue. So, naturally, when it arrived, it was green. Not a nice green, mind you. The worst shade of green you could imagine. That in itself wasn't bad enough, but our sink was yellow. I had wanted to keep our old sink, despite its colour, because I rather liked the way it was shaped. It wasn't like a common basin, it had character. Hugh liked the green tub, I liked the yellow sink, so that's the way it remains to this very day.  
  
While the tub filled with water, I added my favourite bath oils, then went about the task of room prep. I laid out our fluffiest towels, lit a few candles, and turned the CD player on. That was another nightmare in the redesign of this room, but I'll save the Fry vs. Electrical Wiring story for the day I also tell you about the pink toilet.   
  
 _Prelude to Tristan and Isolde_  blared out at me, but I switched it off and replaced it with a burned copy of Hugh's  _Piper At The Gates Of Dawn_  album. I knew he'd appreciate that more than one of mine. I remember the day he came dragging home the original vinyl, babbling excitedly about how some git had sold it to him for only 50p. The memory of that night, however, is mostly limited to a drug filled haze of fucking endlessly. Well, semi-endlessly, since Hugh would have to go flip the record over occasionally.  
  
I glanced at myself in the mirror, running a finger over the scarlet mark on my neck. I couldn't help but think that this was his way of marking his territory. It was low enough that I could hide it from public view, but near impossible in private. Not that there was anyone other than Hugh to see it in private.  
  
I switched the water off, meaning to turn round and tell him that it was ready, but he was already standing just inside the doorway. He trailed his fingers down my chest. I caught his hand, bringing it up for a kiss before letting it drop to his side. He swooped in, quickly attaching his mouth to my neck again. I took a step back from him.  
  
'I think one love bite is more than enough.'  
  
He only stood there, looking a bit lost and more than a bit naked. I tried to think of as many unsexy thoughts as I could.  
  
'Do you want to shave before or after? I'm sure we have a razor stashed round here someplace.'  
  
'Can't ... won't have time to grow back properly.'  
  
'Oh.'  
  
I didn't like the reminder that his stay was but a limited one. Four days is hardly long enough to make up for the time apart. The quiet voice in the back of my head that always held hope that he wouldn't leave was squashed by the nasty voice which was nagging at me again about how this was probably the end of the road. I did my level best to bury the disappointment over his eventual leaving. He scratched at his chin, no doubt thinking that I was disapproving of his gruff look.  
  
'Ah, well, no matter. Your water's getting cold. I'll just go busy myself with laying out clothes for our date.'  
  
I moved to pass him, but he grabbed me by my arms and pushed me against the open door ... pinning me against it with his body.  
  
'Now, Hugh, I ...'  
  
My feeble protest became nothing more than a hum as he enveloped my mouth with a kiss that can only be described as needy. My insistence to think unsexy thoughts was soon forgotten. He pulled back only far enough to break the kiss. I could still feel his breath, hot and shallow, across my lips.    
  
'Don't leave me,' he whispered.  
  
I wasn't sure if he meant not to leave the room or leave him in general. My mind was a bit fuzzled since I had been worried sick that he was going to walk out on me at any moment.  
  
'I won't.'  
  
'It'll save water if we do this together.'  
  
He took a few steps towards the tub. I didn't move from my spot against the door until he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me closer.   
  
With a sweeping motion of his hands, he said, 'After you, m'colleague.'  
  
I blushed as I stepped out of my last remaining bit of clothing. There was no logical reason for my blush. We'd seen each other in various stages of undress more times than I could ever hope to count. We had long since moved into the marital comfort zone in which we could move about freely without clothing and not always think of sex. This, however, was not one of those times. I've never been exactly comfortable with being watched as intently as he was watching me settle into the water ... most especially if I happened to be even half as aroused as I was at that moment. He followed me in, leaning back against me once he was comfy. I draped my arms across his chest, he put his hands on mine.  
  
We christened the tub on the very first night it was up and running. Even with it being longer than your average claw foot tub, it was still too cramped of a space for two men of our considerable heights to really have good, rocking sex in ... but we had a fun time of it none the less.    
  
Hugh's eyes fluttered shut as I kissed at his neck. I thought perhaps he was falling asleep again until he made a lovely, happy sounding noise and spoke.  
  
'This feels  _so_  good.'  
  
'Baths usually do after having only showers.'  
  
'Not just that, but this ... being here, being home ... with you. It feels so right that I forgot I ever left. I forgot about all of those long days and lonely nights spent missing you and wondering if you missed me. I even forgot ...'  
  
He swallowed hard. I kissed his ear.  
  
'I'm just saying that I feel, you know, good. This is the first time since you shattered my heart that I've felt anything, really.'  
  
I breathed out against the bit of his hair that was nearest my lips. I deserved that. I deserved worse. Even so, it still hurt to hear him say it.    
  
'I'm sorry.'  
  
I hid the trembling in my voice as best I could. I have always tried to shield him from my negative emotions since he carries more than his share of unhappiness. This time was no exception, though I doubted he would've shed a tear for me under the circumstances.   
  
We didn't speak again until he stated that his toes were getting wrinkled, indicating that he was ready to get out. We quickly showered in an attempt to get some actual cleansing accomplished.  
  
We dressed mostly without incident. That small incident being him getting a bit overly defensive when I asked if he was really going to wear  _that_  belt.    
  
The major incident didn't happen until we were nearly ready to leave. I was doing a quick mental check list to make sure that I had everything I needed to bring, when I glanced over to him sitting on the edge of the bed. He was giving me that look which told me it was coming a second before it left his mouth.  
  
'Did you fuck him on our bed?'  
  
I closed my eyes and sighed through my nose, before I looked straight down into those beautiful eyes of his.  
  
'No. He's never been here.'  
  
'Tell me about it.'  
  
'You don't want to hear this.'  
  
'I do.'  
  
I ran my hand through my hair, trying not to get irritated.  
  
'No, trust me, Hugh. You  _do not_  want to hear this.'  
  
'Don't tell me I don't want to hear something when I damn well bloody do.'  
  
'What do you want to know?'  
  
'Why?'  
  
'I don't know why. He's attractive, younger, he kept making advances, and ... and he was there. I was lonely and he was there.'  
  
'So, this is my fault for being away?'  
  
'No, of course not. Sweetness, you know how I am sometimes ... reckless, impulsive, thoughtless ... not giving a damn about anyone, least of all myself. You know this. Only this time someone other than the two of us got swept up into my madness. It doesn't mean I love you any less.'  
  
'If you love me, then why? Or, is this just another one of your lies?'  
  
'Maybe it was because I wanted to be with someone who is capable of being happy.'  
  
Hugh's jaw tightened. I can't recall him ever looking so angry, especially not directed towards me. We had disagreements on occasion, but we'd never had a real row. It's not an experience I ever hope to repeat.  
  
'You don't love me.'  
  
'Christ. Why do you always have to be such a fucking masochist?'  
  
His eyes squeezed shut as he whispered, '...fuck you.'   
  
'I don't love you? Who held you when you woke up crying in the middle of the night, every night for God knows how long ... and then couldn't get back to sleep from worry? Who spent their morning, on their hands and knees, trying to clean your vomit off the carpet and never said a thing when it left a stain? Who plays along with this whole ... whole ... sham that you've built up round yourself? I've loved and supported you every minute of every day for half my life. You can call me a bastard son of a bitch for hurting you, but don't ever think that I don't love you.'  
  
His expression had changed from one of anger to sadness, but he otherwise didn't move or say anything. I got down on my knees in front of him, placing my hands on his legs, and speaking in my softest of voices. My mind raced, trying to piece together the best collection of lies, half-truths, and actual truths into something that I thought he'd find acceptable. That may sound a bit underhanded, but I needed to say what he wanted to hear. Regardless of what may or may not have been a lie, and I'll leave you to speculate on that matter, the absolute truth of it is that I love him with all of my being. I have faults, just as you and everyone else in the world does. So, please don't take some morally superior high road and judge me for lying to the man I love about my indiscretion. I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that I would do anything to salvage our relationship.  
  
'Hugh....... It only happened once and it was just sex. It and he mean absolutely nothing to me. I went to his place, fucked him, and left. I've regretted it from the moment it happened. There was nothing the least bit loving or romantic or - or anything even remotely like what we have about it. I'm so very sorry that I hurt you. I love you.'  
  
He opened his eyes and looked down at me. I was relieved to see that he was on the verge of tears. That, at least, meant that he was feeling  _something_.  
  
'Do you still libb me, Squeakie?'  
  
He smiled and blushed slightly at the name Squeakie. It was a real smile, one that reached his eyes ... and it was the most beautiful thing that I had seen in recent memory. He nodded in reply.  
  
'Of course. I love you more than I libb you. It's just that ..."  
  
He paused, glancing away from me while rubbing absently at his hip.  
  
'Tell me what's on your mind, dearest.'  
  
'It's - I .... nothing. It's nothing important.'  
  
'Are you sure?'  
  
'Yes.'  
  
I let him run his fingers through my hair for as long as my knees would allow. When I finally stood, I kissed him.  
  
'Stephen, are we - are we, you know, ok?"  
  
'I don't think that we've ever been "ok", but if you mean are we still a duo .... That's up to you. I don't want to live without you, but I'm not going to stop you from doing whatever you want.'  
  
He wrapped his long arms round my waist, hugging himself tightly against me.  
  
'I want to be with you.'  
  
I gently pulled him to his feet and kissed him again.    
  
We interlaced our fingers, holding hands until the moment just before we stepped out of the block of flats. Once we were outside, we walked to the restaurant, close enough so that our hands brushed each other. It was one of our many well practiced, subtle public displays of affection that we'd used ever since the beginning when their initial purpose was to minimise the chances that one or both of us would be beaten to a bloody pulp in a college lav. They were later adapted for the dual purpose of keeping our relationship out of the tabloids, and so that we could display a private affection in front of the viewing several and have them ... well, at least most of them ... be completely clueless. We became well versed in the fine art of non-verbal communication.  
  
Our destination that night was one of my absolute favourite restaurants, and home to many fabulous dinner parties, The Ivy. If you've never had the pleasure, it's just the sort of place that an eclectic person such as myself would enjoy. The decor consists of stained glass windows, Modernist art, lots of wooden panels, and some of the most delightful furniture of any restaurant. There's also a large, crescent shaped bar and a piano. Its appeal is really all about the atmosphere. The dining area is dimly lit and there's always something of a cloud of smoke lingering in the air. The food itself does leave something to be desired, but that makes no difference once you're sufficiently drunk off the wines from their ample selection.    
  
Passing through the dining area, one can usually tell the difference between those of some celebrity, locals who waited months to get a table, and tourists. Since anyone of some celebrity, sadly, doesn't have to adhere to the dress code, one can spot the less classy of them by simply looking for those in more casual attire. The locals, who aren't there for star gazing, will either ignore or turn their nose up at you. Those who are hoping to see what their favourite actors look like while eating, will point and whisper. Tourists vary. Europeans tend to be a bit more discreet with their pointing, while Americans will often voice their disappointment when they don't recognise anyone. When Hugh's away, I'll sometimes lunch alone and spend my time observing and listening to the conversations of those round me.   
  
As we walked to our table, I picked up a few patches of conversation regarding us. It was a mixture of the "There goes Lord Snooty has-been and his boy. We know what they're up to." arseholes and the "There's House and that large, bent-nosed fella what's on our hotel tv day and night. I wonder how they know each other." touristy types. I exaggerate a bit, of course. There were also people who couldn't be arsed to notice us and some who simply pointed us out to their companions without much comment. I'm quite glad that I didn't see any friends as I didn't want to have any interruptions. After we sat, our feet always remained in contact with each other.  
  
My poor darling's meals of late generally consisted of these ghastly little bowls which contain dried pasta and powder in which one would add water and microwave it. Yuck. Simply and utterly yuck. I made it a point to make sure he got a full tummy while he was home. We ordered our food along with a bottle of La Tache. He ate as if he hadn't eaten anything in at least a week. We didn't conversate much until he slowed down the shoveling of noodles. Our conversation, when it came, was sparse as we were trying to avoid any sensitive subjects. He told me a few stories about his more interesting neighbours. I told him my schedule for the following week's book signings.  
  
As our bottle of wine began to empty, I could tell that he was beginning to get a bit tipsy. He was smiling while he rambled on about random topics, some of which I had no idea what he was talking about. While sitting there, he found a crayon which must've been left behind by a child who had sat at our table previously. He poked at the table with the crayon while talking.    
  
Halfway through our next bottle of wine, an excellent Romanee-Conti, he quietly belched. The belching caused him to drop the crayon into the centre of his bowl, which, in turn, caused him to start giggling. I chose that moment to remove the small package from my jacket pocket and pass it across to him, our hands touching as he took it from me. I'd picked up this little item earlier in the day. I had wondered when or if I'd get the chance to give it to him. He pulled the paper off to find a CD of the new Rolling Stones album.  
  
'Aw, thank you, Stephen.'  
  
'Turn it over.'  
  
Sellotaped to the back of the CD was a small card I had made on my computer. Inside of the card was a poem I had written for him. I shan't tell you what the poem said, Hugh is one of the very few people I let read what I write, but I will tell you that its contents made his ears flush a deep pink. He tore off a piece of the wrapping, wrote on it with the crayon, and slipped it across the table. Our hands lingered together longer than we should've allowed, before I took the paper to find he had written "I ♥ U".  
  
By the time I paid the bill, we had been in the restaurant for three hours. It's amazing how time flies. Nearly the moment we stepped outside, there was the flash of a camera. Bloody paparazzi. I hurried past them, hoping to only get caught in no more than one or two of their photographs. I was also hoping that Hugh was keeping up with me, but he drunkenly smiled for the camera. I wanted to grab him by the hand to hurry him along, but instead waited on him to catch up. Thankfully, someone more interesting than us left The Ivy next, so we were safe to go back to minding our own business. The last thing I wanted was for one of them to get the wise idea of following us.    
  
As we walked, Hugh slid his hand into mine. I was just about to tell him that I didn't think that was a good idea, when he pulled me into a dark alcove and started kissing me madly. While it may've been dark in the spot we were at, anyone could easily see us if they happened to walk past.    
  
'I don't think -'  
  
'Shhh ...'  
  
'Mind the glasses.'  
  
'I'll buy you a new pair.'  
  
He shrugged his jacket off as he pressed himself against me even more so than he already was.   
  
In between kisses, he breathed, 'Fuck me, Stephen.'  
  
'I will later.'  
  
He sighed as he turned round, pressing his arse firmly against me. There is absolutely nothing that turns me on quite as intensely as he does when he's whorishly wanton. Even so, there was no way I was going to screw him in that alcove. I placed my hands on his hips and gently pushed him away. He poked out his bottom lip in a sad imitation of a pout.    
  
'Be a good boy and when we get home, I'll pound your arse into oblivion.'  
  
He smiled and swayed a bit as I retrieved his jacket from the ground. After one more kiss, we were once again on our way back to our little love nest to pretend nothing had ever happened to disrupt our lives.  
  
Four days may not be long enough to make up for time apart, but I had the feeling that we were certainly going to give it a try.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written November 2015)


End file.
